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^^She . 


waited a moment still, hoping that his mood 
would soften.” 


[Page 228. 


V A 

YOUNG MAN’S 
YEAR 


BY 

ANTHONY HOPE 

AUTHOR OP “the PRISONER OP ZENDa” 



ILLUSTRATED BY 
C. H. TAFFS 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK 1915 


COPTBIGHT, 1914, 1915, BY ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS 


•/ 



Printed in the United States of America 

SEP 141915 ' 

©C1.A411500 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Of THE Middle Temple, Esquire . . . i 

II. Miss Sarradet’s Circle -13 

III. In Touch With the Law 23 

IV. . A Grateful Friend 33 

V. The Tender Diplomatist 44 

VI. A Timely Discovery 55 

VII. All of a Flutter . 6$ 

VIII. Nothing Venture, Nothing Have! .... 75 

IX. A Complication 86 

X. The Hero of the Evening 97 

XI. Household Politics . 108 

XII. Lunch AT THE Lancaster 119 

XHI. Settled . .131 

XIV. The Battle with Mr. Tlddes 143 

XV. The Man for a Crisis 153 

XVI. A Shadow on the House 164 

XVII. For no Particular Reason 176 

XVIII. Going to Rain 188 

XIX. The Last Entrenchment 200 

XX. A Prudent Counselor 211 

XXI. Idol and Devotee ' . . .223 

XXII. Pressing Business 234 

XXIII. Facing the Situation 247 

XXIV. Did You Say Mrs.? 258 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXV. The Old Days End 272 

XXVI. Rather Romantic! 283 

XXVII. In the Hands of the Gods 296 

XXVIII. Taking Medicine . 309 

XXIX. Tears and a Smile . . 321 

XXX. A Variety Show 333 

XXXI. Start and Finish 345 

[XXXn. Wisdom Confounded 357 

XXXIII. A New Vision 369 

XXXTV. The Lines of Life 381 

i XXXV. Hilsey and Its Fugitive 393 

XXXVI. In the Spring . . - • • • 406 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


"She . . . waited a moment still, hoping that his 

mood would soften’’ . . . Frontispiece 

PACING PAGE 

" ‘You must be Arthur, aren’t you?’ she said” . 52 

" "Think of all those poor people — it’s all for noth- 
ing, I suppose!’” 310 

"She glided gently to the middle of the ice” . . 378 



A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


CHAPTER I 

OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, ESQUIRE 

It was a dark dank drizzly morning in March. A 
dull mist filled all the air, and the rain drifted in a thin 
sheet across the garden of the Middle Temple. Every- 
thing looked a dull drab. Certainly it was a beastly 
morning. Moreover — to add to its offenses — it was Mon- 
day morning. Arthur Lisle had always hated Monday 
mornings ; through childhood, school, and university they 
had been his inveterate enemies — with their narrow rig- 
orous insistence on a return to work, with the end they 
put to freedom, to leisure, to excursions in the body or 
in the spirit. And they were worse now, since the work 
was worse, in that it was not real work at all ; it was only 
waiting for work, or at best a tedious and weary prep- 
aration for work which did not come and ( for all that he 
could see) never would come. There was no reason why 
it ever should. Even genius might starve unnoticed at 
the Bar, and he was no genius. Even interest might fail 
to help a man, and interest he had none. Standing with 
his hands in the pockets, listlessly staring out of the win- 
dow of his cell of a room, unable to make up his mind 
how to employ himself, he actually cursed his means of 
subsistence — the hundred and fifty pounds a year which 
had led him into the fatal ambition of being called to the 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Bar. “But for that it would have been impossible for 
me to be such an ass/’ he reflected gloomily, as he pushed 
back his thick reddish-brown hair from his forehead and 
puckered the thin sensitive lines of his mouth into a child- 
ish pout. 

Henry, the clerk (of whom Mr. Arthur Lisle owned 
an undivided fourth share), came into the room carry- 
ing a bundle of papers tied with red tape. Turning round 
on the opening of the door, Arthur suddenly fell prey to 
an emotion of extraordinary strength and complexity; 
amazement, joy, excitement, fear, all in their highest ex- 
pression, struggled for mastery over him. Had he got a 
Brief ? 

“Mr. Norton Ward says will you be kind enough to 
protect him in Court III, in case he’s on in the Court of 
Appeal. It’s a very simple matter, he says ; it’s the Di- 
visional Court, sir, third in the list.” Henry put the 
papers on the table and went out, quite disregardful of 
the storm of emotion '^hich he had aroused. Though 
keenly interested in the fortunes of his employers, he 
did not study their temperaments. 

It had happened, the thing that Arthur knew he ought 
always to hope for, the thing that in fact he had always 
dreaded. He had not got a brief ; he had to “hold” one — 
to hold one for somebody else, and that at short notice — 
“unhouseled, disappointed, unanealed!” That is to say^ 
with no time to make ready for the fearful ordeal. It 
was nearly ten o’clock, at half-past he must be in court; 
at any moment after that the case might come on, its two 
predecessors having crumpled up, as cases constantly did 
in the Divisional Court. The fell terrors of nervousness 
beset him, so that he was almost sick. He dashed at the 
brief fiercely, but his fingers trembled so that he ccmld 
2 


OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, ESQUIRE 


hardly untie the tape. Still he managed a hurried run 
through the papers and got the point into his head. 

Lance and Pretyman, JJ., took their seats punctually 
at ten-thirty. Arthur Lisle, who felt much interest in 
judges as human beings and would often spend his time 
in court studying them rather than the law they admin- 
istered, was glad to see Lance there, but feared Pretyman 
to the bottom of his heart. Lance was a gentle man, of 
courtly manners and a tired urbanity, but Pretyman was 
gruff, abrupt, terribly anxious about saving public time, 
and therefore always cutting into a man^s argument with 
the Stand-and-dcliver of a question to which, in Prety- 
man’s opinion, there was no answer. It would be an 
awful thing if Pretyman set on him like that! Because 
then he might be incapable of speech, although he knew 
that he was in the right. And he believed that his case 
was good. “All the worse then, if you lose it!’' said a 
mocking voice within him. 

Henry had taken him over to the court and had done 
everything possible for him — had told the solicitor who 
had briefed Norton Ward how the matter stood and how 
very safe he would be in Mr. Lisle’s hands if it came to 
that, had given his name to the usher so that the usher 
could, if necessary, give it to the Bench, and had even 
introduced him to Mr. O’Sullivan, who was on the other 
side, a tall and burly Irishman, famous for defending 
criminals, but not credited with knowing much law. 

As the first two cases proceeded, Arthur read his brief 
again and again, and, when he was not doing that, he 
read the reported case which (in the opinion of the pupil 
who had “got up” Norton Ward’s brief and had made a 
note of it for him) was decisive in his favor. All the 
while he was praying that the first two cases might last 

3 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


a long time. They did not. Pretyman, J., smashed the 
pair of them in three-quarters of an hour. “Brown and 
Green” called the usher, and O’Sullivan was on his legs — 
and there was no sign of Norton Ward. Henry nodded 
to Arthur and left the court; he was going to see how 
matters stood in the Court of Appeal. 

“This is an appeal from the West Hampstead County 
Court, my lords,” began Mr. O’Sullivan, “which raises a 
question of some importance,” and he went on in such a 
fashion that Arthur hoped he was going to take a long 
time; for Henry had come back, and, by a shake of his 
head, had indicated that there was no present hope of 
Norton Ward’s arrival. Mr. O’Sullivan meant to take a 
decently long time; he wanted his client to feel that he 
was getting his money’s worth of argument ; therefore he 
avoided the main point and skirmished about a good deal. 
Above all he avoided that case which Norton Ward’s 
pupil had considered decisive. Mr. O’Sullivan knew all 
about the case too, and had it with him, but he was in 
no hurry to get to it yet. 

Lance, J., was leaning back, the picture of polite acqui- 
escence in a lot assigned to him by Providence, a position 
wherein dignity was tempered by ennui. But Pretyman, 
J., was getting restive; he was fingering his beard — ^he 
committed the solecism of wearing a beard on the Bench ; 
then he picked out a book from the shelf by him, and 
turned over the leaves quickly. Mr. O’Sullivan came, by 
a series of flourishes, a little nearer the point. And 
Norton Vv^ard did not come; and Arthur Lisle felt no 
better. 

“What about Watkins and Chichester?” demanded 
Pretyman, J., with a sudden violence that made Arthur 
jump. 


4 


OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, ESQUIRE 


‘‘I have that case here, my lord, and ’’ 

''You don’t seem in a hurry to cite it, Mr. O’Sullivan. 
It seems to me dead in your teeth.” 

"Let us hear the headnote, Mr. O’Sullivan,” said 
Lance, J., suavely. 

Then they got to it, and Pretyman, J., and Mr, O’Sulli- 
van had a fine wrangle over it, worrying it up and 
down, one saying that this case was that case, the other 
that this case was not that case, because in that 
case that happened and in this case this happened, and 
so forth. Mr. O’Sullivan “distinguished” valiantly, and 
Pretyman knocked his distinctions into a cocked hat. 
Lance, J., sat on smiling in silence, till at last he asked 
blandly : 

"If we think the cases indistinguishable, Watkins and 
Chichester binds us, I take it, Mr. O’Sullivan?” 

That Mr. O’Sullivan had to admit, and on that admis- 
sion down he sat. 

The moment had come — and Norton Ward had not. 
With an actual physical effort Arthur rose to his feet; a 
strange voice, which did not seem to belong to him, and 

sounded quite unfamiliar, said: "My lords ” He 

saw Lance and Prettyman, JJ., in the shape of a gro- 
tesque, monstrous, two-headed giant; for the latter was 
leaning over to the former, who sat listening and twice 
nodded his head. 

A slip of paper was handed up to Lance, J. He glanced 
at it and from it to Arthur. Again that strange voice 

said, "My lords ” But Lance, J., interposed suavely, 

"I don’t think we need trouble you, Mr. Lisle,” and he 
proceeded to say that not even Mr. O’Sullivan’s ingenious 
argument could enable his brother or himself to dis- 
tinguish Brown and Green from Watkins and Chichester, 

5 

f 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


and therefore the appeal must be dismissed with costs. 

“I concur,” said Pretyman, J., with contemptuous curt- 
ness ; in fact he did not say at all ; he merely grunted 
out “concur.” 

Of course such a thing happened often, and was quite 
likely to happen; very probably Norton Ward, after 
glancing over his pupil’s note and at Watkins v. Chiches- 
ter, had seen that it might happen here and had the less 
scruple about intrusting his case to hands so inexperi- 
enced. None the less, Arthur Lisle felt that the gods had 
played a cruel game with him. All that agony of appre- 
hension, all that tension of desperate coward’s courage, 
endured for nothing and gone for nothing! All to be 
endured and achieved again — how soon? He got out of 
court he hardly knew how, and made his way hurriedly 
across the Strand. He would have that wig and that 
gown off, or somebody else would be tapping him on the 
shoulder, arresting him with the stern command to hold 
another brief I 

Now, back in chambers, with the strain over, he was 
furious with himself, savage and furious ; that mood fol- 
lows hard on the paroxysms of the malady. He began 
to attribute to it all the failures of his past life — quite 
im justly, for in most cases, though it had tortured him, 
he had overcome the outward manifestation of it. He 
could not see his life as liveable if it were to meet him at 
every turn. What made him a prey to it? Self-con- 
sciousness, silly self-consciousness, his wise elders had 
always told him. But what made people self-conscious? 
Self-conceit, the same wise mentors had added. His soul 
rose in a plain and sincere protest, certain of its truth: 
“But I’m not conceited.” “Yes, but (he imagined the 
mentors’ argument now) you really are; you think every- 
6 


OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, ESQUIRE 


fjody’s looking at you and thinking of you/^ “Well, but 
so they are when Pm on my legs speaking; and before- 
hand I know they’re going to be.” The mentors did not 
seem to have anything to say to that. 

In the afternoon Norton Ward came into his room to 
thank him for holding the brief ; he was a man of punc- 
tilious courtesy, as indeed he was master of most of the 
arts and gifts that make for success in life. At little 
more than thirty he had already a fine practice, he was 
on the edge of “taking silk”; he had married well — the 
daughter of a peer, with a substantial portion ; he was a 
"prospective” candidate for Parliament. A favorite of 
nature and of fortune indeed 1 Moreover he was a kindly 
man, although a ruthlessly ambitious one. He and 
Arthur had become acquainted merely through the acci- 
dent of Arthur’s renting the spare room in his chambers, 
when he had been called to the bar a twelvemonth before ; 
but the landlord had taken to his tenant and would gladly 
have done him a turn. 

“I thought the case quite plain,” he said, “but I’m 
sorry you were done out of your argument.” 

“I wasn’t sorry,” Arthur confessed, with a frankness 
habitual to him. 

“You weren’t? Oh, I see! Nervous!” He laughed 
gently. 

“Beyond belief. Did you used to be ?” 

“Just at first. I soon got over it. But they say one 
oughtn’t to get over it. Oh, you’ve heard the stories 
about big men, haven’t you? Anyhow some men never 
do. Why, I’ve sat behind Huntley and seen his hand 
tremble like our old friend the aspen leaf — ^and that when 
he was Attorney-General!” 

“Lord !” was Arthur’s despairing comment ; because a 

7 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


malady which did not spare an Attorney-General must 
surely be unconquerable by lesser folk. 

‘‘But I expect it’s not quite the same sort/’ Norton 
Ward went on, smiling. “It’s rather like falling in love, 
I expect. A man’s excited every time he falls in love, but 
I don’t think it’s the same sort of excitement as he suffers 
when he falls in love for the first time — I mean badly.” 

Now the last word of this observation so struck Arthur 
that he forgot all the earlier part of it — nay, he forgot 
his malady itself, together with the truth or falsity of the 
parallel Norton Ward suggested. 

“Badly ? What do you mean by falling in love badly 

“I’m not speaking with regard to morals. Lisle. I 
mean severely, or utterly, or passionately, or, if you pre- 
fer, idiotically.” 

Arthur’s lips puckered about his pipe-stem; it was a 
trick he had. 

“I think I should call that falling in love well, not 
badly,” he observed gravely. 

It was the gravity of the speaker, not the import of 
the thing spoken, which made Norton Ward laugh again 
and heartily. His was one of those temperaments — sane, 
practical, concrete, equable — which regard the affairs of 
love as a very subsidiary matter in real life, in the real 
life of any individual, that is ; for, of course, they possess 
a national and racial importance when reduced to statis- 
tics. He did not quarrel with the literary convention 
which exalted love to the highest place — the convention 
made good reading and produced exciting plays — ^but it 
did not answer to real life as he knew it, to the stern yet 
delightful fight which filled his days, and really filled his 
wife’s too, since she was a partner wherever she could 
be, and an eager encourager in all things. But what of 
8 


OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, ESQUIRE 


the great amorists who were also great men and women ? 
Well, how much of that, too, was play-acting — to the 
public and to themselves? That was the question his 
mind instinctively put about such cases. 

As he looked at Arthur Lisle’s slight figure and sensi- 
tive face, he felt a compassion for him, a pitying doubt 
whether so frail a vessel could live in the rough sea on 
which it had embarked. Characteristically this friendly 
impulse expressed itself in an invitation to dinner, which 
was received by Arthur with surprise, delight, and grati- 
tude. 

'^Of course I will, and it really is most awfully kind of 
you,” he said. 

Norton Ward went off to a consultation with a smile 
of mingled pity and amusement still on his lips. 

His invitation to dinner really pleased Arthur very 
much, not only as a sign of friendship, but for its own 
sake. He had found his early days in London lonel)^ — 
in depressing contrast with the full social life of school 
and Oxford. The glowing anticipations with which imag- 
ination had invested his coming to the metropolis had not 
stood the test of experience. For some young men family 
connections, or notable achievements and high reputation, 
provide a ready-made place in London. Others, possessed 
of ample means, can make a pretty good one for them- 
selves speedily. But Arthur’s university career, though 
creditable and to him delightful in the highest degree 
from its teeming fulness of interests, had not been con- 
spicuous; he had no powerful friends, and he was very 
poor. After his chambers were paid for, and his share 
in Henry, and his lodgings in Bloomsbury Street, there 
was left not much margin beyond the necessities of life — 
food, raiment, and tobacco. The theater, even the pit, 
2 9 


A YOUNG JVIAN’S YEAR 


could not be indulged in often. He had many solitary 
evenings. When it was fine, he often walked the streets ; 
when it was wet he read — and often stopped reading to 
wish that something would happen. His vague and rest- 
less longings took no form more definite than that — want- 
ing something to happen. He was in London, he was 
young, he was ready — and nothing happened! Conse- 
quently an invitation to dinner was a prize in the daily 
lottery of life. 

When he got back to his ‘‘diggings” in the evening he 
found a letter from home. His mother and sister had 
continued to live on in the old house at Malvern Wells 
after the death of his father, who had enjoyed a fairly 
good practice as a doctor there, but dying comparatively 
early had left a slender provision for his family. Mrs. 
Lisle preferred to be poor, since poor she had to be, in 
a place where she was already known and respected. The 
school, too, was a great attraction ; there Arthur had been 
educated as a day-boy, and thence had proceeded to Ox- 
ford with an exhibition, to which he added a second from 
his college, thus much easing the family finances, and 
indeed rendering Oxford possible. There had been talk 
of his people’s migrating to London and making a home 
for him there, but, in fact, none of the three had been 
zealous for the change. Mrs. Lisle was frail and clung 
to her accustomed hills and breezes; Anna had her 
friends, her circle, her church work, her local impor- 
tance ; and Arthur was at that time too full of those glow- 
ing anticipations of London life to press the project of a 
family villa somewhere in the suburbs and a season-ticket 
to take him out of town at the precise hour of the even- 
ing when town began to be amusing. 

For all that, he was an affectionate son and brother, 
10 


OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, ESQUIRE 


and he smiled sympathetically over Anna’s home gossip. 
Only the postscript made him frown rather peevishly. It 
ran : ‘‘Mother wants to know whether you have called on 
the Godfrey Lisles yetT 

Mother wanted to know that in pretty nearly every one 
of her own and Anna’s letters; hence the italics which 
distinguished Anna’s ‘yet.’ And the answer still had to 
be in the negative. Why should he call on the Godfrey 
Lisles ? He knew his mother’s answer ; a thoroughly ma- 
ternal answer it was. Godfrey Lisle, though only a dis- 
tant cousin, was the head of the house, squire of Hilsey 
Manor, the old family place, and a man of considerable 
wealth — altogether, in fact, the Personage of the family. 
Most families have a Personage, to them very important, 
though varying infinitely in significance or insignificance 
to the world outside. On the whole the Lisle Personage 
was above the average from the outside point of view, 
and Mrs. Lisle’s anxiety that her son should pay him 
proper attention, and reap therefrom such advantage as 
might accrue, was no more than natural. 

But to Arthur all the reasons why he ought to call 
on his cousin were reasons why he could not do it. Jus£ 
as, while Mr. O’Sullivan was arguing, his imagination 
was picturing what a young fool Pretyman, J., would 
soon be thinking him, so here, whenever the question of 
this call arose, the same remorselessly active faculty re- 
hearsed for him all the aspects in which he would appear 
to the Godfrey Lisles — a poor relation, a tiresome duty, 
a country cousin, a raw youth — Oh, in fine and in the 
end, a bore of purest quality and great magnitude ! That, 
and nothing else, the Godfrey Lisles would think him. 

Still, if his mother persisted, the thing might have to 
happen. He had a vision of himself watching the God- 
II 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


frey Lisles out of their house, and then diving across the 
road to deposit furtive cards with the butler. A funny 
vision, but with him quite capable of turning into reality ! 

His brow cleared as he took up a second letter which 
awaited him. He knew the hand : 

Dear Mr. Lisle: 

Do drop in to-morrow evening after dinner. We shall be 
having cards and perhaps a little music. About 9.30. Do as 
you like about dressing. 

Yours sincerely, 

Marie Sarradet. 

The Sarradets lived in Regent’s Park — rather far from 
any underground station. 'T’ll dress if it’s fine, and not 
if it’s wet,” thought Arthur. The balance of profit and 
loss as between paying a cab-fare on the one hand and 
taking the shine out of his patent leathers on the other 
presented a problem of constant difficulty in connection 
with his evening gaieties. 


CHAPTER II 


MISS SARRADET’S CIRCLE 

A hundred and fifty years ago or thereabouts a cer- 
tain Jacques Sarradet had migrated from his native 
Lyons and opened a perfumer’s shop in Cheapside. The 
shop was there still, and still a Sarradet kept it, and 
still it was much esteemed and frequented by City men, 
who bought presents or executed commissions for their 
wives and daughters there. To folk of fashion the 
Bond Street branch was better known, but which was 
the more profitable only the master knew. Together, at 
all events, they were very profitable, and the present 
Mr. Clement Sarradet was a warm man — warmer than 
he let the world know, or even his own family, so far as 
he could keep the knowledge from them. He had pre- 
served his French frugality, and, although his house in 
Regent’s Park was comfortably and hospitably conducted, 
the style in which he lived was a good deal less sumptu- 
ous than English notions would have considered his in- 
come to warrant. He had preserved too, in spite of 
mixed marriages in the family history, something of his 
French air, of the appearance of a prosperous hon bour- 
geois, with his short, thick-set figure, his round paunch, 
his stiff, upstanding white hair (he had married late in 
life and was now over sixty), his black brows and mus- 
tache, and his cheeks, where blue and red seemed, after 
a tussle, to have blended into a subdued purple. 

13 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Something French, though differently French, survived 
also in his cherished daughter Marie, writer of the note 
already set forth, and mistress of the house in Regent’s 
Park since her mother’s death five years ago. Here it 
was manner rather than looks (she was a brunette, but 
not markedly) ; she had a vivacity, a provocativeness, a 
coquetry, which in less favored races often marks a frivo- 
lous or unstable character, but in the French finds no 
difficulty in blending with an adorning solid good sense, 
sturdy businesslike qualities, and even sometimes a cer- 
tain toughness of tissue more certainly valuable than 
attractive. 

The evening party to which Arthur Lisle had been 
bidden was drawing to its close. They had played 
cards ; they had had some music ; they had ended up with 
a couple of '‘topping’' comic songs from Joe Halliday, 
and they were still laughing over these as they munched 
sandwiches and sipped, according to sex, lemonade or 
whisky and soda. Mr. Sarradet watched them benevo- 
lently, thinking them a very pleasant set of young peo- 
ple, and admiring the way in which his daughter exer- 
cised a pretty dominion over this little band of chosen 
friends. The two girls, Mildred Quain and Amabel 
Osling, openly acknowledged her leadership; the men 
deferred to her, not only as the hostess (a position which 
she generally occupied), but as the center of attraction 
and the deviser of pleasures, the organizer of visits to 
theaters and concerts, and of their lawn tennis at the 
Acton ground in the spring and summer. But there was 
a touch of shrewd anxiety in his watching. Young men 
were wont to aspire to more than friendship where they 
found metal attractive to their eyes. Mr. Sarradet was 
ambitious for his daughter. 

14 


MISS SARRADET’S CIRCLE 


“Next Monday, then, wedl all meet at His Majesty’s,” 
Marie announced — or commanded. She turned to her 
brother. “You get the tickets, Raymond. And anybody 
who likes can come back here to supper afterwards.” 

“Splendid, dear!” said Amabel Osling, a dark girl 
with large eyes and a rather intense manner; she wore 
what might be described as an art- frock. 

“An evening out, an evening out!” chanted Joe Halli- 
day, a big young fellow with a shock of light brown hair 
and a manner of exuberant good-nature and heartiness. 

“I’m afraid I can’t come,” said Arthur Lisle apolo- 
getically. 

“Why not, Mr. Lisle?” Marie’s voice sounded cer- 
tainly disappointed, perhaps rather resentful. 

“I’m dining out.” 

Sidney Barslow looked at him with a smile, in which 
Arthur detected an ironical flavor. Between these two 
members of the circle there was, in truth, no love lost. 
Barslow resented in Arthur a superiority of breeding 
which all his own vanity could not enable him to ignore. 
Arthur found this handsome fellow, with his carefully 
sleek hair, his bold challenging eye, his lady-killerish 
airs, in the end a “bounder” with only a veneer of ele- 
gance; all the same, he wished he had half Barslow’s 
easy assurance and self-confidence. 

“Oh, Learned Counsel is dining out?” In the Sarra- 
det circle, being of the Bar was felt to be enough of a 
distinction to warrant a little chaff. “May one ask who 
with? The Lord Chancellor, perhaps?” 

They all laughed. “Presently, presently!” said Joe, 
patting Arthur’s head. “The lad will make his way in 
society.” 

“Don’t be an ass, Joe!” But Arthur liked Joe as 

15 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


much as he disliked Barslow, and his protest was quite 
free from annoyance. 

'"Don’t you want to tell us who it is, Mr. Lisle?” asked 
Amabel, 

'"Well, I don't suppose you’ll be any the wiser ; it's the 
man whose chambers I share — Norton Ward.” 

Now, as it chanced, Mildred Quain's uncle lived in 
the suburban constituency which Norton Ward was 
""nursing,” and was of the same political color as the 
prospective candidate. Mildred had heard the candidate 
speak at the opening of a bazaar — and had seen the 
Honorable Mrs. Norton Ward perform the ceremony. 

""You are among the swells, Mr. Lisle !” said Mildred, 
and proceeded to describe the extreme political and so- 
cial eminence of the Norton Wards. Arthur, who had 
gratefully accepted his invitation as a human kindness, 
was amused at finding it regarded as a promotion, as a 
cause for congratulation and envy; he grew afraid that 
his mention of it might be taken for a boast. 

""I think it was pure charity on Norton Ward’s part,” 
he laughed. ""I expect he thought I was lonely.” 

""I daresay. He couldn't be expected to know about 
"the likes of us,” said Barslow. 

"‘Oh, shut up, Sidney!” cried Joe Halliday. ""Can't 
Arthur go out to dinner without your permission ?” 

A sudden flush spread over Barslow's face; he glared 
angrily at Joe. Mr. Sarradet had taken up the evening 
paper, and noticed nothing; but all the rest were con- 
scious that a storm threatened the serenity of the gather- 
ing. On a trivial occasion latent jealousies had leapt 
to light. 

Marie looked round her company with a smile which 
included all and betrayed no partisanship. “We’ll choose 
i6 


MISS SARRADET’S CIRCLE 


another night for His Majesty’s/' she said. “That’s 
quite simple. Then we can all go. And now shall we 
have one more song before we break up? One more 
from you, Joe!” As they moved toward the piano, she 
contrived to touch the irate Mr. Barslow lightly on the 
arm, to give him an arch glance, and to murmur — ^very 
low — the word: “Silly T’ Mr. Barslow’s brow cleared 
wonderfully. 

She wanted no quarrel, and was confident of her abil- 
ity to prevent one. If one came, she would have to be 
arbiter; she would have to take sides, and that must 
almost certainly mean the loss of one of her friends — 
either Sidney Barslow or Arthur Lisle. She did not want 
to lose either, for each had an attraction for her — an 
attraction not of mere solid friendship such as bound 
her to Joe Halliday, but an appeal of man to woman. 
Barslow’s boldness, his challenge, his powerful virility, 
drew one side of her nature with a strong magnet; to 
what was “second-class” and tawdry in him she was not, 
by birth or breeding, very sensitive herself. On the 
other hand, she knew that Arthur Lisle was — and admired 
him because he was. Nay, in a sense she was afraid of 
him because he was; if she did or said anything in his 
eyes amiss — if she showed too much favor to Sidney 
Barslow, for instance — ^he might feel about her much as 
he did about the man himself. She knew all about Bars- 
low, and all about what Barslow felt for and about her- 
self; it was very familiar, one might say inherited, 
ground. With regard to Arthur Lisle all this was differ- 
ent ; he was still, in spite of their apparent intimacy, terra 
incognita. Though he constantly frequented the house, 
though from a chance acquaintance of her brother’s he 
had grown into a familiar friend, though they were fast 

17 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


comrades, even though she knew that he admired her, 
there was so much about him which she vaguely divined 
to be there, but could not value or analyze — notions, in- 
stincts, spots of sensitiveness, to which she remained 
really a stranger. How strong were they, what was their 
verdict on her, what their influence on him? Would a 
tide of admiration or passion sweep them all away ? Or 
would they make such a tide impossible, or, even if it 
came, dam its course with impalpable insurmountable 
obstacles? In fine, would he, in spite of any feeling for 
her that he might have, hold her “out of the question” ? 

He was the last to leave that night — as he often was, 
for the solitude of his lodgings had no attraction for him 
— and she went with him to the door. The stars shone 
now over Regent’s Park, and they lingered a moment in 
astronomical conversation. Then she gave him her hand, 
saying : 

“I’m so sorry about Monday! But you must tell me 
all about your party afterwards.” 

“I don’t suppose there’ll be anything to tell. Well, 
Mildred Quain may be interested, because of her uncle !” 

“I shall be interested too — though not because of my 
uncle,” she said, with a laugh and a fleet upward glance 
at him. “I consider I’ve introduced you to London so- 
ciety, and I take a maternal interest in you, Mr. Lisle.” 

“Why do you say ‘Mr. Lisle’ to me? You always say 
‘Joe’ and ‘Sidney’ to the others.” 

“Soldo! I don’t know.” 

“Well, then, don’t do it,” laughed Arthur. “It makes 
me jealous, you know.” 

She looked at him for a moment, not now in provoca- 
tion, rather in thought, perhaps in puzzle. “It needn’t 
do that, anyhow,” at last she said. 

i8 


MISS SARRADET’S CIRCLE 


“Is it then a mark of respect?’^ he asked banteringly, 
finding pleasure in the perplexed little frown which per- 
sisted on her pretty face. 

“Well, I speak of you as I feel about you, and I can’t 
say more,” she answered, half laughing, but protesting, 
too, that this sort of inquisition was unfair. 

“You shall do as you like, then! What you do is 
always right.” He spoke affectionately and held out his 
hand to her again. 

She did not give him hers. She drew back a little, 
blushing. “Ah, if you really thought that!” After a 
pause, she said rather sharply: “Why don’t you like 
Sidney Barslow ?” 

“I don’t exactly dislike him, but sometimes he ” 

He waved his arm, wanting a word. 

“Grates?” she suggested briefly. 

“Thank you!” said Arthur, with a laugh. “Just every 
now and then, perhaps !” 

She stood there a moment longer with an expression 
on her face which was new to him there; she looked as 
if she wanted to say something or ask him something, 
but did not dare. Though her lips smiled, there was ap- 
peal, almost timidity, in her eyes. But she turned away 
with no more than “Well, good night.” 

Scores of times in the last year and a half, since he 
had come to know her, he had called her “a good sort” 
for all the kindness and friendship she had shown him; 
he had conceived for her, and her clever capable ways, 
an amused admiration. After these feelings there had 
grown up in him, by familiarity, a sort of mental friend- 
ship for her face and figure too. He never reckoned 
her beautiful or even very pretty, but she had a piquancy 
of face and a grace of figure which had gradually be- 

19 


A YOUNG IVIAN’S YEAR 


come very pleasant to him. That she was physically 
attractive had been an afterthought, but, when once it 
had come, it stayed. To-night he was particularly con- 
scious of it, perhaps because of the air of timidity or 
self-distrust which softened her, and, softening her, flat- 
tered in him the latent masculine pride. 

Though not entirely, he had been to a large extent, 
free from boyish flirtations and philandering. The ne- 
cessity of hard work, shyness and fastidiousness, bodily 
temperament, had all combined to keep him out of such 
things. One passion of a glorious Oxford summer term 
he had counted the real thing, and remembered even now 
with a tender exultation; for the girl’s heart had been 
touched, though not to the point of defying either pru- 
dence or propriety — even had he ventured to urge such 
courses. Save for this episode, now remote since such 
age quickly, he was in essence a stranger in the field of 
love. He did not recognize nor analyze the curious little 
stir which was in him as he walked home that night — 
the feeling of a new gaiety, a new joyfulness, a sense of 
something triumphant and as it were liberated and given 
wings. He did not even get so far as to associate it 
explicitly and consciously with Marie Sarradet, though 
he did know that never had she seemed a dearer friend 
or a more winning girl than she had that night. He stood 
by the brink of the spring of love, but had not yet drunk 
of it nor recognized the hand that had led him there. 

The girl had gone back to her father and mixed him 
his “night cap” of hot toddy, as her custom was. While 
he sipped it, she stood beside him, looking down into the 
fire, still and meditative. Presently she became aware of 
his bright beady eyes set on her with a glance half ap- 
prehensive, half amused ; she interpreted it easily. 

20 


MISS SARRADET’S CIRCLE 


‘‘A long time saying good night, was I, Pops? And 
you think Pve been flirting? Well, I haven’t, and I 
couldn’t have if I’d wanted to. Mr. Lisle never flirts. 
Joe pretends to sometimes, and Sidney — does. But Mr. 
Lisle — never !’^ 

“That needn’t mean that a man has no serious inten- 
tions,” Mr. Sarradet opined. 

She smiled. “With the English I think it does. We’re 
not quite English, even after all this time, are we? At 
least you and I aren’t ; Raymond is, I think.” 

“Raymond’s a goose, English or not!” said the father 
impatiently. “He’s in debt again, and I have to pay! 
I won’t leave my business to a spendthrift.” 

“Oh, he’ll get over it! He is silly; but— only twenty- 
two, Pops!” 

“And at twenty you’ve as shrewd a head as I know 

on your shoulders ! Get over it he must, or !” An 

indignant gulp of his “night cap” ended the sentence. 

“If you’d let him go in for something that he liked bet- 
ter than the business ” she began. 

“What business has he not to like the business? It’s 
kept us in comfort for a hundred and fifty years. Isn’t it 
good enough for him? It’s been good enough for me and 
my forefathers. We’ve known what we were; we’ve 
never pretended to be anything else. We’re honest mer- 
chants — shopkeepers. That’s what we are.” 

“I thought Raymond might be home early to-night.” 

“Not till two o’clock, I bet you!” said old Sarradet 
fiercely. “And then with empty pockets !” 

“Have patience, dear; I’ll talk to him,” she promised 
gently, and soothed the old fellow, whose bark was worse 
than his bite. 

“Well, he’ll come to me for a check once too often, 
21 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


that’s all,” he grumbled, as he kissed his daughter and 
took himself off to bed. 

“Honest merchants — shopkeepers. That’s what we 
are.” The words echoed through Marie Sarradet’s head. 
It was easy to smile at them, both at their pride and at 
their humility, easy to call ideas of that kind quite out of 
date. But what if they did represent a truth, irrelevant 
perhaps nowadays for public or political purposes, but 
having its relevance and importance in personal relations, 
in its influence on mind and feeling? This was the di- 
rection her thoughts took, though she found no words, 
and only dim ideas by which to grope. Presently the 
ideas grew concrete in the word which she had herself 
suggested to Arthur Lisle and he had accepted with 
alacrity. Sidney Barslow “grated” on Arthur. It was 
not impossible to see why, though even this she acknowl- 
edged grudgingly and with a sense of treachery — she 
herself found so much to like in Sidney! Exactly! 
There she seemed to lay her finger on the spot. If she 
liked Sidney, and Sidney grated on Arthur Lisle so 

badly The question which she had not dared to ask 

at the door rose to her lips again : “Do I grate ?” And 
was that why Arthur Lisle never flirted? Never with 
her, at least — for that was all she could really know on 
the subject 


CHAPTER III 


IN TOUCH WITH THE LAW 

Arthur Lisle arrived on the pavement in front of Nor- 
ton Ward’s house in Manchester Square five minutes be- 
fore the time for which he was invited, and fifteen before 
that at which he would be expected to arrive. Painfully 
conscious of this fact, he walked first down Duke Street, 
and then back up Manchester Street, trying to look as if 
he were going somewhere else. Nor did he venture to 
arrive at his real destination until he had seen three ve- 
hicles deposit their occupants at the door. Then he pre- 
sented himself with the air of having hurried a little, lest 
he should be late. None of this conduct struck him as at 
all unusual or ridiculous; not only now but for long 
afterwards, it was his habit — ^the habit of a nervous im- 
aginative man. 

The party was not a large one — only twelve — and it 
was entirely legal in character. Besides host and hostess, 
there were three couples — two barrister couples and one 
solicitor couple. Two of the couples brought daughters, 
one of whom fell to Arthur’s lot, the other being taken in 
to dinner by another young barrister. Arthur got on 
very well with his girl, who was fortunately an enthusi- 
ast about lawn tennis; she interested without absorbing 
him; he was able to be polite without ceasing to watch 
the two people who really arrested his attention, his host- 
ess and — most strangely, most wonderfully! — Mr. Jus- 

23 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


tice Lance. For at half-past eight the old Judge, by bis 
arrival, completed the party. 

A catalogue of Mrs. Norton Ward's personal attrac- 
tions would sound commonplace enough. She had small 
features, was fair, rather pretty, rather pale, and rather 
short; there seemed no more to say. But she possessed 
a gracious candor of manner, an extreme friendliness and 
simplicity, a ready merriment, and together with these a 
complete freedom from self-consciousness. Somehow 
she struck Arthur as a highly refined, feminized, ethereal- 
ized counterpart of Joe Halliday — they were both such 
good human creatures, so superlatively free from “non- 
sense" of all sorts. He took to her immensely from the 
first moment, and hoped very much that she would talk 
to him a little after dinner. He felt sure that he could 
get on with her; she did not alarm or puzzle him; he 
knew that he had “got her right." 

When Norton Ward moved, according to ritual, into 
his wife's vacant place beside Mr. Justice Lance, he 
beckoned to Arthur to come and sit on the Judge's other 
side and introduced him. “You just missed the pleasure 
of hearing his maiden argument the other morning, 
Judge," he added, laughing slyly at Arthur, who had not 
got over the surprise of encoimtering Lance, J., as a 
private — and harmless — individual. 

“Ah, I remember — a case of yours! But O'Sullivan 
wouldn’t give Mr. Lisle a chance!" 

He spoke in the same soft, rather weary voice that he 
had used in court; with his sparse white hair he looked 
older than when he was in his wig ; he was very carefully 
dressed, and his thin fine hands wore a couple of rather 
ornate rings. He had keen blue eyes and a large well- 
shaped nose. 


24 


IN TOUCH WITH THE LAW 


'1 don’t know that Lisle was altogether sorry! The 
first time! Even you remember the feeling, I dare- 
say 

'‘Nervous? Was that it, Mr. Lisle?'’ He smiled 
faintly. “You must remember that we’re much ihured 
to imperfection.” He looked on the young man with a 
pleasant indulgence, and, at the same time, a certain 
attention. 

“You always remember our frailty, but there are 
others !” said the host. 

“Ah, ah ! I sat with my Brother Pretyman, so I did ! 
Perhaps he does forget sometimes that one side must be 
wrong. Hence the unpopularity of litigation, by the 
way.” 

Arthur was gaining his ease; the friendliness of both 
his companions helped him; towards the Judge he was 
particularly drawn; he felt that he would be all right 
before Lance, J., in future — if only Pretyman, J., were 
elsewhere! But, alas, a question was enough to plunge 
him back into trouble. Norton Ward had turned to talk 
to his other neighbor, but Sir Christopher Lance spoke 
to him again: 

“Are you any relation to Godfrey Lisle? Lisle of 
Hilsey, you know.” 

“Yes, Sir Christopher, Pm — Pm a distant cousin.” 

“Well, I thought you had something of the family look. 
I’ve not had the pleasure of seeing you at his house — in 
town, I mean ; I haven’t been to Hilsey lately.” 

“I — I’ve never been there,” Arthur stammered. He 
was blushing very red. Here he was, up against this 
terrible business of the Godfrey Lisles again — and just 
as he had begun to get along so nicely ! 

His confusion — nay, his distress — could not escape the 
3 25 , 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Judge. hope I haven’t made a faux pas, Mr. Lisle? 
No quarrel, or anything of that sort, I hope?” 

'‘No, sir; but I don’t know them. I haven’t called 
yet!” Arthur blurted out; he seemed to himself to be 
always having to blurt it out. 

Sir Christopher’s eyes twinkled, as, following the host’s 
example, he rose from the table. 

“If I were you, I should. You don’t know what you’re 
missing.” 

Upstairs Mrs. Norton Ward was better than Arthur’s 
hopes. She showed him at once that she meant to talk 
to him and that she expected to like doing it. 

“I’m always friends with everybody in Frank’s cham- 
bers,” she said, as she made him sit by her. “I consider 
them all part of the family, and all the glory they win 
belongs to the family; so you must make haste and win 
glory, if you can, for us 1” 

“I’m afraid I can’t win glory,” laughed Arthur. “At 
least it doesn’t look like it — at the Bar.” 

“Oh, win it anyhow — we’re not particular how ! Law, 
politics, literature, what you like! Why, Milton Long- 
worth was Frank’s pupil once — for a month ! He did no 
work and got tipsy ; but he’s a great poet now — well, isn’t 
he? — and we’re just as proud as if he’d become Attorney- 
General.” 

“Or — well — at all events, a County Court Judge!” Ar- 
thur suggested. 

“So just you do it somehow, Mr. Lisle, won’t you?” 

“I’ll try,” he promised, laughing. “The other day I 
heard of you in your glory. You sounded very splendid,” 
he added. 

Then he had to tell her all about how he had heard; 
about Mildred Quain, and so about the rest of the circle 
26 


IN TOUCH WITH THE LAW 


in Regent’s Park. His shyness vanished ; he gave humor- 
ous little sketches of his friends. Of course she knew 
Sarradet’s shop, and was amused at this lifting of the 
veil which had hidden the Sarradet private life. But 
being the entirely natural creature she was, talking and 
thinking just as one of her class naturally would, she 
could not help treating the Sarradets as something out of 
her ordinary experience, as something rather funny — 
perhaps also instructive — to hear about, as social phe- 
nomena to be observed and studied. Without her own 
volition or consciousness, her mind naturally assumed this 
attitude and expressed it in her questions and comments ; 
neither were cruel, neither malicious, but both were abso- 
lutely from the outside — comments and questions about a 
foreign country addressed to a traveler who happened to 
have paid a visit there ; for plainly she assumed, again in- 
stinctively, that Arthur Lisle was no more a native of 
that country than herself. Or he might almost have been 
an author presenting to an alert and sympathetic reader 
a realistic and vivacious picture of the life of a social class 
not his own, be it what is called higher or lower, or just 
quite different. 

Whatever the gulf, the difference, might be — abroad or 
narrow, justly felt or utterly exaggerated — Arthur Lisle 
would have been (at twenty-four) more than human not 
to be pleased to find himself, for Mrs. Norton Ward, on 
the same side of it as Mrs. Norton Ward. She was evi- 
dently quite genuine in this, as she seemed to be in every- 
thing. She was not flattering him or even putting him at 
his ease. She talked to him as “one of ourselves” simply 
because that seemed to her what he undoubtedly was — 
and what his friends undoubtedly, though of course quite 
blamelessly, were not. 


27 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


They were thus in the full swing of talk — Arthur doing 
most of it — when the Judge came across the room and 
joined them. Arthur at once rose, to make way, and the 
lady too seemed to treat his audience as finished, al- 
though most graciously. But the Judge took hold of his 
arm and detained him. 

“Do you know, Esther,” he said, “that this young man 
has, by right of kinship, the entree to the shrine? And 
he doesn’t use it !” 

“What?” she cried, with an appearance of lively inter- 
est. “Oh, are you related to the Godfreys, Mr. Lisle?” 

Arthur blushed, but this time less acutely ; he was get- 
ting, as the Judge might have put it, much inured to this 
matter of the Godfrey Lisles. 

“Don’t ask him questions about it ; for some reason or 
another he doesn’t like that.” 

“I don’t really think my cousin Godfrey would care 
about ” 

“Not the least the point, is it, Esther?” said the Judge, 
with a twinkle. 

“Not the least. Sir Christopher. But what’s to be done 
if he won’t go?” 

“Oh, you must manage that!” He squeezed Arthur’s 
arm and then let it go. 

Here, plainly, though no less graciously than from the 
hostess, was his dismissal. Not knowing any of the 
other women, he drifted back to the girl who was en- 
thusiastic about lawn tennis. 

The Judge sat down and stretched out his shapely thin 
hands toward the fire; his rings gleamed, and he loved 
the gleam of them. To wear them had been, from his 
youth, one of his bits of daring; he had, as it were, 
backed himself to wear them and not thereby seem him- 
28 


IN TOUCH WITH THE LAW 


self, or let them seem, vulgar. And he had succeeded; 
he had been called vain often, never vulgar. By now his 
friends, old and young, would have missed them sadly. 

^‘What do you make of that boy, Esther ?” he asked, 
like him — and I think he’s being wasted,” she an- 
swered promptly. 

“At our honorable profession?” 

“You and Frank are better judges of that.” 

“I don’t know. Hardly tough enough, perhaps. But 
Huntley was just such a man, and he got pretty well to 
the top. Died, though, not much past fifty. The climb 
killed him, I think.” 

“Yes, Frank’s told me about him. But I meant wasted 
in his own life, or socially, or however you like to put it. 
He’s told me about his friends, and ” 

“Well, if you like him enough, you can put that right, 
Esther.” 

“I like him, but I haven’t much time for young men. 
Sir Christopher. I’ve a husband, you may remember.” 

“Then turn him over where he belongs — to Berna- 
dette.” 

She raised her brows a little, as she smiled at him. 

“Oh, the young fellow’s got to get his baptism of fire. 
It’ll do him good.” 

“How easily you judges settle other people’s for- 
tunes !” 

“In the end, his not going to his cousin’s house is an 
absurdity.” 

“Well, yes, so it is, in the end, of course,” she agreed. 
“It shall be done. Sir Christopher.” 

While his fortunes were thus being settled for him — 
more or less, and as the future might reveal — Arthur 
was walking home, well pleased with himself. The lady’s 
29 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


friendliness delighted him ; if he did not prize the old 
Judge’s so highly, he had the sense to perceive that it was 
really a more valuable testimonial and brought with it 
more substantial encouragement. From merely being 
kind to him, the Norton Wards had come to like him, as 
it seemed, and their liking was backed by Sir Chris- 
topher’s indorsement. He did not regard these things 
from a worldly point of view; he did not think of them 
as stepping-stones, or at any rate only quite indirectly. 
They would no doubt help him to get rid, or at least to 
hold in subjection, his demon of self-distrust ; but still 
more would they comfort him and make him happy. The. 
pleasure he derived from Mrs. Norton Ward’s liking 
and the Judge’s approval was in quality akin to the grati- 
fication which Marie Sarradet’s bearing had given him a 
few nights ago in Regent’s Park ; just as that had roused 
in him a keener sense of Marie’s attractiveness, so now 
he glowed with a warm recognition of the merits of his 
new friends. 

Walking home along Oxford Street, he had almost 
reached the corner of Tottenham Court Road when his 
complacent musings were interrupted by the sight of a 
knot of people outside the door of a public house. It 
was the sort of group not unusual at half-past eleven 
o’clock at night — a man, a woman on his arm, a policeman, 
ten or a dozen interested spectators very ready with ad- 
vice, as Londoners are. As he drew near, he heard what 
was passing, though the policeman’s tall burly figure was 
between him and the principal actor in the scene. 

"‘Better do as she says, and go ’ome, sir,” said the po- 
liceman soothingly. 

“ ’Ome, sweet ’ome !” murmured somebody in tones of 
fond reminiscence. 


30 


IN TOUCH WITH THE LAW 


*‘Yes, do now. You don’t really want it, you know you 
don’t,” urged the lady, in her turn. 

'‘Whether I want it or not ” 

At the sound of this last voice Arthur started into 
quick attention, and came to a halt. He recognized the 
full tones, now somewhat thickened, with their faint but 
unmistakable suggestion of the Cockney twang. 

“Whether I want it or not” — the man spoke slowly, 
with an effort after distinctness which was obvious but 
not unsuccessful — “I’ve a right to have it. He’s bound 
to serve the public. I’m — I’m member of the public.” 

“ ’Ad enough for two members, I should sye,” came in 
comment from the fringe of the group. 

“That’s it! Go ’ome, now,” the policeman suggested 
again, infinitely patient and persuasive. 

The man made a sudden move toward the door of the 
public house, where an official, vulgarly known as the 
“chucker-out,” stood smiling on the threshold. 

“No, sir, you don'tr said the policeman, suave but im- 
mensely firm, laying a hand on his arm. 

“The officer’s quite right. Do come along,” again 
urged the lady. 

But the movement toward the public house door, which 
revealed to Arthur the face of the obstinate lingerer, 
showed him to the lingerer also — showed Arthur in his 
evening uniform of tall hat, white scarf, and silk-faced 
coat to Sidney Barslow in his “bowler” hat of rakish cut, 
and his sporting fawn-colored coat, with the big flower 
in his buttonhole and his stick with a huge silver knob. 
The stick shot out — vaguely in Arthur’s direction. 

“I’m a gentleman, and, what’s more, I can prove it. 
Ask that gentleman — my friend there ” 

Arthur’s face was a little flushed. His mind was full 

31 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


of those terrible quick visions of his — a scuffle on the 
pavement, going bail for Sidney Barslow, giving evidence 
at the police court. **A friend of the prisoner, Mr. Ar- 
thur Lisle, Barrister, of Garden Court, Middle Tem- 
ple ” Visions most terrible ! But he stood his ground, 

saying nothing, not moving a limb, and meeting Bars- 
low’s look full in the eyes. All the rest were staring at 
him now. If he remained as he was, they would take it 
as a denial of Barslow’s claim to acquaintance. Could 
he deny it if Barslow challenged him? He answered 
No. 

But some change of mood came over Sidney Barslow’s 
clouded mind. He let his stick fall back to his side again, 
and with an angry jerk of his head said : 

‘'Oh, damn it, all right, I’m going! I — I was only 
pulling your leg.” 

“That’s right now !” applauded the policeman. “You’d 
better take ’im in a taxi. Miss.” 

“And put a ticket on ’im, in case ’e falls out. Miss !” 
some friendly adviser added. 

Arthur did not wait to see the policeman’s excellent 
suggestion carried into effect. The moment that Sidney 
Barslow’s eyes were off him, he turned quickly up a by- 
street, and took a roundabout way home. 

He had much to be thankful for. The terrible visions 
were dissipated. And — he had not run away. Oh, how 
he had wanted to run away from the danger of being 
mixed up in that dirty job 1 He thanked heaven that he 
had stood his ground and looked Barslow in the face. 

But what about the next time they had to look one 
another in the face — at the Sarradets’ in Regent’s Park? 


CHAPTER IV 


A GRATEFUL FRIEND 

Marie’s remonstrance with her brother was not ill- 
received — Raymond was too amiable for that — but it was 
quite unsuccessful. Just emerged from an exhaustive 
business training on the latest lines at home and abroad, 
able (as he pointed out in mingled pride and ruefulness) 
to correspond about perfumes in French, German, Span- 
ish, and Italian, and to talk about them in three of 
those languages, he declared openly not for a lifetime 
of leisure but for an hedonistic interval. Further, he 
favored a little scattering of money after so much 
amassing. 

“If Pops,” he observed, “would only go back to his 
Balzac, he would see how much harm and sorrow this 
perpetual money-grubbing causes among the business 
classes of our beloved France. In England a more lib- 
eral spirit prevails, and after a hundred and fifty years 
we ought to be able to catch it. In fact I have caught it, 
Marie.” 

“You have; and you’ll catch something else — from 
Pops, if you don’t look out,” said Marie, who could not 
help smiling at the trim, spry, gay little fellow. Like her- 
self, he was dark and lively, but of the two she was the 
manager, the man of business. 

“Besides, it does the house good. 'Who’s that?’ they 
ask. 'Young Sarradet.’ 'What, the scent and soap peo- 
33 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


pie V The same/ 'Dashed fine business, that !’ ” He 
enacted the dialogue with dramatic talent. “As an ad- 
vertisement, I’m worth all my debt^, dear sister.” 

Marie was too much amused to press her point fur- 
ther. “You rather remind me of Bob Sawyer,” she re- 
marked. “But, anyhow, be here oftener in the evenings, 
if you can. That’ll go a long way toward pacifying Pops. 
When you’re away, he sits thinking of the money you’re 
spending. Besides, he does like to have you here^ you 
know.” 

“You tell me when Amabel Osling is coming, and I’ll 
be here.” 

“I’m glad you like Amabel. She’s pretty, isn’t she ?” 

“She’s all right. Otherwise I didn’t think it was very 
lively.” 

“N-no. It was hardly one of our best evenings,” 
Marie admitted reluctantly. 

It hadn’t been — that first meeting of her circle after 
Arthur Lisle’s dinner party. They had all been there, 
and, in addition, Raymond, whose exchanges of wit and 
chaff with Joe Halliday were generally of themselves 
enough to make the evening a success. It had not been a 
success — at least from the moment of Arthur’s arrival. 
Mildred Quain had started off about the party at once; 
her curiosity concerning the Norton Wards was insatiable 
— she seemed to be working up a regular cult of them. 
Marie herself had been benevolently inquisitive, too, hop- 
ing to hear that Arthur had had a grand time and made a 
great impression. But the topic had seemed distasteful 
to Arthur; he tried to get away from it directly; when 
the persevering Mildred dragged him back, his replies 
grew short and his manner reserved; he seemed ill at 
ease. As for Sidney Barslow, as soon as ever Arthur 
34 


A GRATEFUL FRIEND 


and his party came on the scene, he turned sulky — inde- 
cently sulky. It was painful as well as absurd, and it got 
worse when Joe Halliday, trying (in justice let it be said) 
to lighten the atmosphere by jocularity, suggested : “And, 
after it all, I suppose some beautiful lady took you to 
your humble home in her six-cylinder car Arthur an- 
swered dryly, with a pointed ignoring of the joke: “I 
walked home by Oxford Street.” Joe, still persevering, 
asked: “No romantic adventures on the way?” “Noth- 
ing out of the common,” Arthur replied, in a cool hard 
voice which was very rare in his mouth, but meant, 
Marie knew, serious displeasure. In fact she was just 
going to make some laughing apologjy for the catechism 
through which he had been put when Sidney Barslow, 
who had been glowering worse and worse every minute, 
suddenly broke out: 

“There’s an end of the thing, at all events, at last I” 
And he looked at Arthur, as it seemed to her, with a 
curious mixture of anger and fear, a sort of snarling 
defiance. 

“It was not I who introduced the subject or was re- 
sponsible for its continuance,” said Arthur, in the iciest 
of all his cool voices. “That you must do me the justice 
to admit, Barslow.” 

Then an awful pause — even Joe graveled for a joke — 
and the most obvious clumsy resort to “a little more 
music” ! The strains failed of soothing effect. On the 
one side a careful but disdainful courtesy, on the other a 
surly defiance — they persisted all the evening, making 
everybody uncomfortable and (as Marie shrewdly 
guessed) inquisitive. This was something much worse, 
much more pronounced, than mere “grating.” There 
was, on Sidney’s side at least, an actual enmity; and 
35 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Arthur, noting it, treated it with contemptuous indiffer- 
ence. 

“Have you had a row with Sidney about anything?” 
she managed to whisper to Arthur. 

“No.” 

“Have you said anything to annoy him, do you think ?” 

He looked straight into her eyes. “I haven’t spoken to 
him since we were last here.” 

Sidney she did not venture to approach in confidence ; 
he was altogether too dangerous that night. She did not 
know the occasion which had fanned a smoldering hos- 
tility into flame, which had changed a mere “grating” of 
the one on the other, an uncongeniality, into feelings 
much stronger and more positive. Even had she known 
it, perhaps she was not well enough versed in the stand- 
ards and the moods of men to understand all that it 
carried with it. Sidney Barslow was not particularly 
ashamed of what had happened to him in itself ; in suit- 
able company he would have found it a story he could 
tell and be sure of a humorous sympathy ; there was noth- 
ing to be remorseful or miserable about. As long as a 
man did his work and earned his “screw” (and Sidney 
held a good position in a wholesale linen merchant’s 
business and was doing well), he was entitled to his 
amusements — if you like, his dissipations — while he was 
young, at all events. If indiscretions marked them, if 
one sometimes tumbled over the line, that was in the na- 
ture of the case. He would not have minded an en- 
counter with Joe Halliday outside that public house in 
the least — no, nor even with young Raymond Sarradet, 
Marie’s brother though he was. Nay, he would not much 
have minded being seen even by Arthur Lisle himself; 
for if Arthur had been shocked, Sidney would, in all 

36 


A GRATEFUL FRIEND 


sincerity, have dubbed him a milksop; the man who 
would be shocked at a thing like that was certainly a 
milksop. He was not even afraid of Arthur’s betraying 
him to Marie — not because he thought his enemy above 
that, but because he had an easy confidence that he could 
put the matter right with Marie, and a strong doubt 
whether women objected to that sort of thing so much 
as they were in the habit of pretending; in their hearts 
they like a man to be a man, Sidney would have told 
himself for comfort. 

The poison lay elsewhere. Under the influence of his 
liquor and the stress of his plight — wanting to prove to 
the policeman, to the “chucker-out,” to the interested by- 
standers, that he was not a common taproom frequenter, 
but a '"gentleman” — he had let himself appeal for his 
warrant of gentility to the man whom he had derided for 
thinking himself so much (if you please!) a gentleman. 
Arthur Lisle’s acquaintance was to prove to bystanders, 
policeman, and chucker-out that he, Sidney Barslow, 
though drunk and in queer company, was yet a gentle- 
man ! And how had the appeal been received ? He could 
not charge Arthur with cutting him, or leaving him in 
the lurch. He hated far worse the look he had seen in 
his enemy’s eyes as they gazed steadfastly into his — the 
fastidious repulsion and the high contempt. True, on 
the sight of them, he had withdrawn his appeal ; he had 
preferred to accept defeat and humiliation at the hands 
of chucker-out and constable ; but the fact of the appeal 
having been made remained with all its damning admis- 
sion of inferiority. And that look of contempt he had 
seen again when Arthur Lisle, in answer to Joe Halli- 
day’s clumsy jokes, replied in his cool proud voice that, 
as he walked home by Oxford Street, he had met with 
37 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“nothing out of the common” ! He had met a common 
fellow with a common woman, and, as was common, the 
common fellow was drunk. With all the sharpness where- 
with humiliation pricks a man, with all the keenness 
wherewith hatred can read the mind of an enemy, he 
pointed for himself the meaning of Arthur’s careless- 
sounding words. 

He was in a rage, not only with Arthur Lisle, but with 
himself and his luck — which had indeed been somewhat 
perverse. Lashing himself with these various irritants, 
he soon produced another sore spot — Marie Sarradet’s 
behavior. He was an older friend than Arthur; she had, 
he declared, backed Arthur up in his airy insolence; he 
swore to himself that he had seen her smile at it. At any 
rate she had not backed him up ; to a man in a rage, or 
several rages, it was enough — more than enough for a 
man of his temper, for whom the desire of a woman was 
the desire for a mastery over her. And in the end he 
could not believe that that fragile whipper-snapper with 
his hoity-toity effeminate ways (the point of view is 
Sidney’s) could be weighed in the balance against his own 
manly handsomeness, his dashing gallantry; why, he 
knew that he was a conqueror with women — ^knew it by 
experience ! 

Marie and Raymond, Amabel Osling and himself had 
made up a four to play lawn tennis on the hard courts at 
Acton. They had enjoyed their game and their tea. He 
and Marie had won after a close match, and were in a 
good humor with themselves. He was forgetting his 
grievance against her. She liked him playing games ; he 
was a finely built fellow and looked really splendid in 
his white flannels ; if he ordered her about the court like 
a master, it was a legitimate sway ; he knew the game and 

38 


A GRATEFUL FRIEND 


played well. When, after tea, the other two sauntered 
oif — for an open and unashamed flirtation — Marie had 
never felt more kindly toward him; she had really for- 
given the bearishness of his behavior, and was prepared 
to tell him so after a little lecture, which, by the way, she 
quite looked forward to giving ; for she, too, was fond of 
domination. She started leading up to the lecture. 

“You seem to have found something since we last 
met, Sidney. I’m glad of it.” 

“What do you mean ?” he asked carelessly, as he filled 
his pipe. He did not see her drift. 

“Hadn’t you mislaid something the other night ?” Her 
dark eyes were dancing with mockery, and her lips 
twitched. 

Now he looked at her suspiciously. “I don’t under- 
stand.” 

“You might. I’m referring to your temper.” 

“I’m not aware that I said anything rude. to you. If 
I did, I apologize.” 

“I’m not speaking of myself, but of my friends — ^my 
guests.” 

He leant his arm on the table which stood between 
them. “Meaning Mr. Arthur Lisle?” 

“The smoke of your pipe blows in my face when you 
lean forward like that.” 

“Sorry !” He laid his pipe down beside him. “Well, 
the fact is. I’m about fed up with Lisle.” 

And Arthur Lisle was much in the same case — allowing 
for the difference of expression — as to Sidney! Marie 
smiled, but her brow wrinkled. “Sorry you don’t like 
him, but it costs nothing to be polite.” 

“Well, all I can say is that I shall be very much obliged 
if you’ll ask us on different evenings.” 

39 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


'‘That’s assuming that I’m going to ask you on any 
evenings at all.” 

She thought this smart flick of her whip would bring 
him to reason. 

“Oh, perhaps Lisle’s going to be there every evening ?” 

“Any evening that he likes, Pops and I will be very 
pleased to see him — with or without an invitation.” She 
relented a little; he looked angry and obstinate, but he 
looked handsome too. “You too, if you won’t be silly. 
Why do you dislike him so much?” 

He could not give her the whole reason ; he gave what 
he could. “I see his game. He’s always trying to come 
the swell over me and the rest of us.” 

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to ; it’s just ” 

“His naturally aristocratic manners?” he sneered. 

Marie sat up straight and looked composedly at him. 
By now she was angry — and she meant to hurt. “That’s 
exactly it, Sidney,” she said, “and it’s a pity everybody 
hasn’t got them.” 

She did hurt sorely. He had no code to keep him from 
hitting back, and his wrath was fierce. “Where did you 
learn so much about aristocratic manners? Behind the 
counter ?” 

She flushed hotly; tears came in her eyes. He saw 
what he had done, and was touched to a sudden remorse. 

“Oh, I say, Marie, I didn’t mean !” 

“I shan’t forget that,” she said. “Never 1” 

He shrugged his shoulders and stuck his pipe back in 
his mouth. He was ashamed, but obstinate still. “You 
brought it on yourself,” he grumbled. 

“Yes, I forgot that I wasn’t talking to a gentleman.” 

He made one more effort after reconciliation. “Look 

here, Marie, you know what I think of you ” 

40 


A GRATEFUL FRIEND 


“Yes, I do — you’ve just told me.” 

“Damnation !” he muttered, pulling at his pipe. Marie, 
looking carefully past him, began to put on her gloves. 
Thus Amabel and Raymond found them — with things 
obviously very wrong. Amabel diagnosed an offer and 
a refusal, but Raymond thought there must be even more 
behind his sister’s stormy brow and clouded eyes. The 
journey back was not cheerful. 

Marie was indeed cut to the quick. Even to herself 
it was strange how deeply she was wounded. The Sar- 
radets had never been ashamed of the shop ; rather they 
had taken an honorable pride in it and in the growth of 
its fortunes from generation to generation. Yet Sid- 
ney Barslow’s gibe about the counter was to her now 
unforgivable. It brought into coarse and vivid relief her 
secret doubts and fears. It made her ask whether she, 
having made a friend of the man who had used a taunt 
like that, must not have something about her to justify 
it. It set her on fire to put an utter end to her friendship 
and association with Sidney Barslow — and thereby to 
prove to herself that, whatever her manners might be, 
they were at least too good for such company as his. 

Hitherto pretty equally balanced between the two young 
men, or at all events wistfully anxious that friendship 
with Arthur should not make impossible her old and 
pleasant comradeship with Sidney — ^in whom she found 
so much that she liked — she became now Arthur’s furi- 
ous partisan. With him and his cause she identified her- 
self. She declared that it was purely for his sake, and 
not at all in the interest of her own domination and au- 
thority, that she had rebuked Sidney, and for his sake 
solely that she had suffered insult. By a natural turn 
of feelmg she asked in her heart for a reward from him, 
4 41 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


a recognition of her championship, gratitude to her for 
having preferred him to his would-be rival; if he were 
not at least a little pleased and proud, she would feel 
disappointment and humiliation. 

But he would be. And why? Because that was the 
right thing for him to be, and now in her eyes, at this 
moment, he could do no wrong. Sidney was all wrong, 
therefore Arthur must be all right. She could not bring 
herself to doubt it. And, being all right, he must do and 
feel all the right things. So he would — when he knew 
what she had done and suffered for him. Her heart 
cried out that somehow (as delicately as possible, of 
course) he must be made to know, to know the full extent 
of her service and her sacrifice; he must know the insult 
she had received, and he must consider it as great and 
wanton an insult as she did. 

So her feelings formulated their claim upon him, with 
an instinctive cunning. It was a claim to which no chival- 
rous-minded man could be insensible; it was one that 
would appeal with commanding force to Arthur Lisle’s 
impulsive generosity. 

‘‘For you I have quarreled with my old friend — for 
you I have endured insult.” What could he answer, save 
that in him she should find a better friend, that his ap- 
preciation should efface the insult? 

“Don’t be afraid to come. There will be nobody here 
that you don’t like this time.” With these words her 
next invitation to Arthur Lisle ended. 

He read them with a quick grasp of her meaning — of 
the essential part of it at least. She was on his side ! He 
was glad. Neither for his own sake, nor for the sake of 
the idea that he had of her, would he easily have endured 
that she should be on Sidney Barslow’s side and against 
42 


A GRATEFUL FRIEND 


him. Although she did not know what he knew, and 
had not seen what he had seen, her instincts and her 
taste were right! He looked forward eagerly to letting 
her perceive, in some way or other, that he recognized 
this, to congratulating her somehow on it, to sealing the 
pact of a natural alliance between them. How he would 
do this, or how far he might seem to go in the course 
of doing it, or what further implications might be in- 
volved in such a bond between man and maid, his young 
blood and his generous impulses did not pause to ask. It 
was the thing to do — and he wanted to do it. 


CHAPTER V 


THE TENDER DIPLOMATIST 

The coming of the Easter legal vacation set Arthur 
free for the time from professional hopes and fears. 
He was due on a visit to his mother and sister at Mal- 
vern, but excused himself at the last moment. It was 
not in him to leave London. The Temple indeed he for- 
sook, but he abode in his lodgings and spent his spare 
time with the Sarradets. Amabel Osling was staying 
with them, and Raymond was now in close attendance on 
her. There were two young couples, then, ready for 
lawn tennis, for theaters, for concerts, or any other di- 
version. Yet pleasantest of all were the walks in Regent’s 
Park on the off-days, when nothing special had been 
arranged, but Arthur would happen to stroll up to the 
Broad Walk, and Marie would chance to be giving her 
dog a run. Then they would saunter about together, 
or sit on a seat in the spring sunshine, talking of all 
manner of things — well, except of the particular form 
which Sidney Barslow’s rudeness had taken. Some- 
how, in the end, Marie could never bring herself to tell 
him that and ask him to be indignant about it. She left 
the enormity vague and undefined; it was really none 
the less effective left like that — just as provocative of 
reprobation for the sinner and sympathy for the ill-used 
friend. And it was safer to leave it like that; she could 
never rid herself of the fear that the actual thing, if 
44 


THE TENDER DIPLOMATIST 


revealed, might appear to Arthur rude, indeed, rough, 
ill-mannered, as much of all this as one could conceive — 
but not so overwhelmingly absurd and monstrous as it 
ought to seem, as the demands of her uneasy heart re- 
quired that he should find it. 

For she could hardly believe in what looked now like 
coming to pass. She had known him for a long time — 
more than a year — as a good friend, but rather a reserved 
one; cordial and kind, but keeping always a certain dis- 
tance, actually, if without intention, maintaining a bar- 
rier round his inner self, refusing to abandon the protec- 
tive aloofness of a proud and sensitive nature. Was 
he changing from this to the opposite extreme — to that 
most open, intimate, exposed and unprotected creature, 
a lover? Well as she had known him, she had not 
thought of him as that. But her mind fastened on the 
idea eagerly; it appealed to more than one side of her 
nature. 

‘'As a rule I just can't talk about myself," he said once. 
“How is it that I can to you ?" 

“It's because I love you, and in your heart you know 
it," she wanted to say, but she answered, laughing, “I’ve 
always been rather a good listener." 

“If you tell most people a single thing about your- 
self, they bombard you with a dozen silly questions. Now 
you never do that.” 

“That'^ because I’m afraid of you, if you only knew 
it," she wanted to say, but she answered merrily, “I find 
out more by my way in the end, don't I?" 

For every step forward his feelings had taken, hers 
had taken ten. She knew it and was not ashamed ; she 
gloried in it. From the moment she had come over to 
his side, making herself his champion and asking for 
45 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


his gratitude in return, her heart had brooked no com- 
promise. Hers was a mind quick of decision, prompt 
in action. To romance she brought the qualities of busi- 
ness. A swift rush of feeling had carried her to the 
goal; she watched him now following in her steps, and 
was tremulously careful not to anticipate by an iota the 
stages he had yet to pass. She marveled that she had not 
loved him from the beginning, and almost convinced 
herself that she had. She could scarcely persuade her- 
self to accept even now the signs of his nascent love. 

Thus, in truth, though all unknown to him, she did 
the wooing. Her answer was ready before his question. 
She watched and waited with a passivity that was to a 
man of his disposition her best lure. Some of this fine 
caution she learnt from her observation of him, and 
some of it from Sidney Barslow’s taunt. She subdued her 
natural coquetry, lest, even in eyes the most unfriendly 
and malicious, it should seem forwardness. She gave 
always just a little, little less than his words and his 
eyes asked. Schooling herself after this fashion, model- 
ing her behavior to what she conceived to be his ideals, 
she sought to win him. If she succeeded she would 
achieve not only her heart’s desire, but a great triumph 
over those disturbing doubts. His approval would, she 
felt, set on her the stamp that she longed to wear — the 
social diploma to which she aspired. A fine slap in the 
face for Sidney Barslow it would be, for instance ! 

Arthur’s generous impulse, the desire to show himself 
a warm and grateful friend to his champion, had merged 
now in a great and absorbing contentment. It pre- 
vented him from considering how an engagement and 
a marriage would consort with his prospects and his 
career; it narrowed his vision of his own life and mind 
46 


THE TENDER DIPLOMATIST 


to the present moment. He had got what he had been 
pining for — that intimate and (so to say) ministering 
sympathy which a man perhaps can get, and certainly 
can ask, from a woman only. That had been a need so 
great that its satisfaction seemed to satisfy all the needs 
of his being, and deluded him into thinking that all his 
instincts and aspirations asked no more than this, that 
his keen appetite for beauty could be fed on her vi- 
vacious prettiness, that all his impulses, wayward, fan- 
ciful, sometimes extravagant, could be lulled to sleep by 
the spell of her shrewd and pleasant common sense. It 
made him forget that the prime function of a lover and 
his supreme expression lie in giving, and that the woman 
truly makes the man in love with her when she makes 
him give all he has and think that he is giving brass for 
gold. But if this it is to be a lover, Arthur Lisle was 
no lover now ; if this it is to be a lover, Marie Sarradet 
had never seen and scarce imagined one. 

But the spring sunshine, the impulses of youth, the 
ministering sympathy blinded his eyes. He seemed to 
have all because he liked so much that which he had. 
Gaily and happily, with that fine gallantry which she 
so admired, on he came, step by step. She grew secure. 

By now father and brother were on the alert. They 
had canvassed the matter in all its bearings. Raymond 
was Arthur's enthusiastic adherent. Old Mr. Sarradet 
affected reserve and doubt ; he complained that the suitor 
was far from rich. But in his heart he was delighted 
at the prospect. He admired Arthur, he believed in his 
abilities, he thought the marriage would be a '‘step up" 
for his darling daughter— and perhaps for her family. 
Above all, he saw the time draw near when he should 
enjoy the greatest pleasure that he had to look forward 
47 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


to in life — surprising Marie by the handsome dimensions 
of her dowry. He hugged the thought of it; he loved 
her, and he knew she was a good woman of business. 
It would be a great moment when she saw in him, at one 
and the same moment, a more munificent father and a 
cleverer man of business than ever she had thought. In- 
cidentally the disclosure might cause Master Raymond 
to realize what very considerable things he stood to lose 
if he did not mind what he was about. The old fellow 
had no real thought of disinheriting his son, but he loved 
the power his money gave him, and would now and 
again flourish the sword that he would have been most 
loth to use. 

So all things promised bravely. Marie, the tender 
diplomatist, held a winning hand and was playing it well. 
Leave her to the skill that her heart taught her, and the 
game was won! 

Among the accidents of life are relatives appurtenant 
to but ordinarily outside of the family circle. Mr. Sar- 
radet owned one — an elder sister — in his eyes, by early 
memory and tradition, exceptionally endowed with the 
knowledge of the way to look after girls, and the proper 
things to be done in the interest of their dignity and 
virtue. She came up from Manchester, where she lived, 
to have her teeth seen to — not that there were not excel- 
lent dentists in Manchester, but her father had always 
gone to Mr. Mandells, of Seymour Street, and she had 
a fancy to go to Mr. Mandells’s son, of Seymour Street 
still — ^and stayed with her brother from Friday to Tues- 
day. Having seen what she saw, and had her doubts, and 
come to her own conclusions, she sat up late on Monday 
night, sat up till Arthur Lisle had departed, and Marie 
was between the sheets, and even Raymond had yawned 
48 


THE TENDER DIPLOMATIST 


himself off to bed; and then she said abruptly to her 
brother, Mr. Sarradet: 

‘'It’s a settled thing, I suppose, though it’s not an* 
nounced yet ?” 

Mr. Sarradet passed his hand over his hairbrush of 
a head, and pulled his mustache perplexedly. “I suppose 
it is,” he answered lamely, quite conscious that Mrs. 
Veltheim possessed knowledge and commanded defer- 
ence, but conscious also that, up to now, matters had 
gone on very well without her. 

“You suppose!” said the lady. The two words car- 
ried home to a conscience hitherto guiltily easy. But 
Mrs. Veltheim left nothing to chance; she rammed the 
charge in. “If dear Marie had a mother !” 

She alarmed the cautious old bourgeois — to the point 
of protesting that he felt no alarm whatever. 

“He’s a gentleman.” He took a sip at his toddy. “No 
girl in the world has more self-respect.” Another sip 
ended in “Perfect confidence !” vaguely murmured. 

“Young men are young men.” 

“Not at all! I don’t believe it of him for a minute.” 
His protest was against the insinuation which even an 
identical proposition may carry. 

“I rescued my Harriet just in time.” 

“Damn your Harriet, and I wish you’d go back to 
Manchester !” It was not what he said to his respected 
sister. “Cases differ,” was the more parliamentary form 
his answer took. 

But the seed was sown before Mrs. Veltheim did go 
back to Manchester. It germinated in the cautious sus- 
picious soul of the old shopkeeper, so trustful of a 
man’s credit till the breath of a suspicion blew upon 
it, then so acute to note every eddying current of the 
49 


A YOUNG JMAN’S YEAR 


air. He grew minded to confront Arthur Lisle with the 
attitude of Mrs. Veltheim— a lady for whom Arthur, on 
the strength of one evening’s acquaintance, had conceived 
a most profound aversion. 

She was a fat woman — abroad, heavy, fair and florid, 
married to an exceedingly prosperous German. To Mr. 
Sarradet her opinion was, like her person, weighty; not 
always agreeable, but never unimportant. To Arthur 
she was already — ^before ever he had conceived of her 
as having or being entitled to have an opinion about him, 
his sentiments, or his intentions — ^an appreciable draw- 
back, though not a serious obstacle, to the alliance which 
he was contemplating. He was, in fine, extremely glad 
that she and her husband, whom he defined and incar- 
nated with all his imagination’s power of vividness, lived 
in Manchester. If they too had dwelt in Regent’s Park, 
it would not have been the same place to him. Collateral 
liabilities would have lurked round every corner. 

By now, and notwithstanding a transitory disturbance 
created by the revelation of Mrs. Veltheim, Arthur’s 
mind had subconsciously chosen its course; but emo- 
tionally he was not quite ready. His feelings waited 
for a spark to set them in a blaze — such a spark as might 
come any moment when he was with Marie, some spe- 
cial note of appeal sounded by her, some quick intuition 
of him or his mood, raising his admiration and grati- 
tude, even some especially pretty aspect of her face sud- 
denly striking on his sense of beauty. Any one of these 
would serve, but one of them was needed to change his 
present contentment into an impulse towards something 
conceived as yet more perfect. The tender shrewd diplo- 
matist divined pretty well how things stood; she would 
not hurry or strive, that way danger lay; she waited, 

50 


THE TENDER DIPLOMATIST 


securely now and serenely, for the divine chance, the 
happy coincidence of opportunity and impulse. It was 
bound to come, and to come now speedily. Alas, she did 
not know that clumsy hands had been meddling with her 
delicate edifice! 

Two days after Mrs. Veltheim had gone back to Man- 
chester, old Sarradet left his place of business early, 
traveled by omnibus from Cheapside to the corner of 
Bloomsbury Street, and presented himself at the door 
of Arthur’s lodgings. Arthur was at home; Marie had 
told him that she would not be able to meet him in Re- 
gent’s Park that afternoon, as some shopping business 
called her elsewhere, and he was lounging through the 
hours, not (as it happened, and it does happen some- 
times even when a man is in love) thinking about her 
much, but rather about that problem of his legal career 
which the waning of the vacation brought again to his 
mind. The appearance of Mr. Sarradet — who had never 
before honored him with a visit — came as something 
of a surprise. 

‘‘As I was passing your corner, I thought I’d look in 
and see if you were coming up to our place this after- 
noon,” Mr. Sarradet explained. “Because, if so, we 
might walk together.” 

Arthur said that he understood that Marie would be 
out, and therefore had not proposed to pay his friends 
a visit that day. 

“Out, is she? Ah, yes!” He smiled knowingly. “You 
know what she’s doing better than her father does !” He 
was walking about the little room, looking at Arthur’s 
pictures, photographs, and other small possessions. 
“Well, you’ll be coming again soon, I expect?” 

“I expect so, if you’ll have me,” said Arthur, smiling. 

51 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Mr. Sarradet took up a photograph. “That’s a nice 
face!” 

“It’s my mother, Mr. Sarradet” 

“Your mother, is it? Ah, well, now! And she lives 
at ? Let me see! You did mention it.” 

“At Malvern — she and my sister.” 

“Your sister? Ah, yes! Unmarried, isn’t she? Have 
you no other brothers or sisters ?” 

Under these questions — and more followed, eliciting 
a good deal of information about his family and its cir- 
cumstances — Arthur’s face gradually assumed its dis- 
tinctively patient expression. The patience was very 
closely akin to endurance — in fact, to boredom. Why did 
the fussy old fellow worry him like that? Instinctively 
he hardened himself against Sarradet — against Sarradet’s 
implied assertion of a right to ask him all these ques- 
tions. Perhaps he knew that this resentment was not 
very reasonable. He felt it, none the less. To put him 
in any way to the question, to a test or a trial, was so 
entirely contrary to what had been Marie’s way. 

“And you’re practising at the Bar, Mr. Lisle, eh?” 

The infusion of obstinacy in the patience grew stronger. 
“I’m what is commonly called a briefless barrister.” 

Now old Sarradet knew that — and did not mind it 
under the circumstances. But the thought of that dowry 
was too much for him. He could not resist a little flour- 
ish. “Briefless ! Oh, come, don’t say that !” He pursed 
up his lips and shook his head humorously. 

“It’s unfortunately the case, Mr. Sarradet. I hope it 
won’t always be so, of course.” 

“We must hope that, we must all hope that!” said Sar- 
radet, rubbing his hands slowly together. “And in any 
case we none of us know what fortune has in store for us, 

52 





'‘‘You must be Arthur, aren’t you?’ she said.” 




THE TENDER DIPLOMATIST 


do we?” He smiled, looking at Arthur with an inter- 
rogative air. He thought he had given the young man 
a lead, a good cue on which to speak. Arthur said noth- 
ing, and Sarradefs smile gradually vanished, being re- 
placed by a look of some perplexity. He did not know 
how to go on ; Mrs. Veltheim had told him what to do but 
had not told him how to do it. There was an awkward 
silence. Sarradet had taken up his hat and stood in 
the middle of the room, fingering it and eyeing Arthur 
with an air that seemed almost furtive. “Well, I must 
be going,” he said at last. 

Arthur moved toward the door of the room and opened 
it. Sarradet stepped into the hall, saying, “Perhaps you’ll 
be looking in on us to-night?” 

“Thanks awfully, but I’ve arranged to go to the theater 
with a man to-night.” 

“To-morrow, then?” Sarradet’s tone sounded per- 
sistent. 

Arthur had meant to look in to-morrow. It had been a 
pleasant prospect. Why was the old fellow making 
an obligation, a duty, of it? 

“Yes, I’ll come to-morrow,” he said, rather curtly. 

“Ah, that’s right, that’s right.” Arthur had opened 
the hall door by now. Sarradet took his hand and pressed 
it hard. “That’ll be good news for Marie, won’t it?” 
He had at last got a little nearer to what Mrs. Veltheim 
wanted. 

“Pm very much flattered by your putting it like that.” 
Arthur was still distant and defensive. 

But Sarradet was desperate now — he must get out 
what he wanted to say before the door was shut on him. 
“Oh, nonsense! Come, Mr. Lisle, as man to man, we 
understand one another?” 


53 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


The question was out at last. If he had put it a quarter 
of an hour earlier Arthur Lisle would have answered it 
to his satisfaction, however little he relished its being* 
put. But now it was not fated to have an answer. For 
on the very moment of its being put there came inter- 
ruption, in a form which made the continuance of this 
momentous conversation impossible. 

A barouche with a pair of fine bay horses, a barouche 
on Cee-springs, sumptuously appointed, clattered up the 
street and to the common amazement of the two men 
stopped at the door. The footman sprang down from 
the box and, touching his hat to a lady who occupied 
the carriage, waited for her instructions. But she paid 
no heed to him. She leant over the side of the car- 
riage and looked at the two men for a moment. Sarradet 
took off his hat. Arthur Lisle just stared at the vision, 
at the entire vision, the lady, the carriage, the footman 
— the whole of it. 

The lady’s face broke into a bright smile of recognition. 

‘T came to call on Mr. Arthur Lisle. You must be 
Arthur, aren’t you?” she said. 

No, there was no possibility of Mr. Sarradet’s get- 
ting his question answered now. 


CHAPTER VI 


A TIMELY DISCOVERY 

When Arthur ran down the step and across the pave- 
ment, to take the hand which his visitor held out to him 
over the carriage door, Mr. Sarradet bowed politely, put 
his hat on, and turned on his heel. He was consumed 
with curiosity, but he had no excuse for lingering. He 
walked up Bloomsbury Street and along the east side 
of Bedford Square. But then, instead of pursuing a 
northwesterly course toward his home, he turned sharply 
to the right and, slackening his pace, strolled along Mon- 
tague Place in the direction of Russell Square. He went 
about twenty yards, then turned, strolled back to the 
corner of Bedford Square and peered round it. He re- 
peated these movements three or four times, very slowly ; 
they consumed perhaps six or seven minutes. His last 
inspection showed the carriage still at the door, though 
neither the lady nor Arthur was visible. Evidently she 
was paying a call, as she had intimated; no telling how 
long it might last! ‘Well, I must go home,'’ thought 
Mr. Sarradet, as he strolled slowly toward the east once 
more. He turned and walked briskly back. Just as he 
reached again the corner from which he had taken his 
observation, he made a sudden backward jump. He was 
afraid that he was caught! For the barouche dashed 
by him at a rapid trot, and in it sat the lady and Arthur 
Lisle. They did not see him; their heads were turned 
55 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


toward one another; they appeared to be engrossed in a 
lively conversation. The carriage turned westward, 
across Bedford Square; Sarradet watched it till it dis- 
appeared round the comer into Tottenham Court Road. 

“That’s quick work!” thought Mr. Sarradet; and, in 
truth, if (as the visitor’s words implied) she had never 
seen Arthur Lisle before, the acquaintance was going 
forward apace. Who could she be? He was vaguely 
troubled that Arthur Lisle should have — or make — a 
friend like that. The barouche somehow depressed him ; 
perhaps it put him a little out of conceit with the di- 
mensions of that precious dowry ; it looked so rich. And 
then there had been the reserve, the distance, in Arthur’s 
manner, his refusal to follow up leads and to take cues, 
and the final fact that the important question had (even 
though it were by accident) gone unanswered. All these 
things worked together to dash Mr. Sarradet’s spirits. 

He told Marie about his visit to Arthur. She was 
rather surprised at a sudden fancy like that (for so he 
represented it) taking hold of him, but her suspicions 
were not roused. When he went on to describe the ar- 
rival of the other visitor she listened with natural and 
eager interest. But the old fellow, full of his perplexi- 
ties, made a false step. 

“She was in the house nearly ten minutes, and then — 
what do you think, Marie ? — they drove away together 1” 

“In the house ten minutes? Where were you all that 
time?” 

“I was — er — strolling along.” 

“You must have strolled pretty slowly ! Where did they 
overtake you. Pops ?” 

He grew rather red. “I can’t remember exactly ” 

he began lamely. 

56 


A TIMELY DISCOVERY 


She knew him so well; his confused manner, telling 
that he had something to conceal, could not escape her 
notice. 

“I believe you waited round the corner to see what 
happened ! Why did you spy on him like that ?” 

'‘1 don’t see any particular harm in being a little curious 
about ” 

But she interrupted him. His spying after the car- 
riage threw suspicion on the motive for his visit too. 
“Didn’t you really go and see Mr. Lisle about anything 
in particular ?” 

“Anything in particular, my dear? What do you 
mean ? I asked him to drop in to-morrow ” 

“Did you talk about me?” 

“Oh, well, you were mentioned, of course.” 

She leant her arm on the mantelpiece and looked down 
at him gravely. He read a reproachful question in her 
glance, and fidgeted under it. “Have you been med- 
dling?” was what her gravely inquiring eyes asked. 
“Meddling as well as spying. Pops?” 

He was roused to defend himself. “You’ve got no 
mother, Marie, and ” 

“Ah!” she murmured, as a quick flash of enlighten- 
ment came. That was Aunt Louisa’s phrase! She saw 
where it came from in a minute; it had always sup- 
plied Mrs. Veltheim with a much desired excuse for 
interfering. She went on in a hard voice — she was very 
angry — “Did you ask Mr. Lisle his intentions?” 

“Of course not. I — I only took the opportunity of 
finding out something about his people, and — and so on. 
Really I think you’re very unreasonable, Marie, to ob- 
ject ” and he wandered or maundered on about his 

paternal rights and duties. 

5 57 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


She let him go on. She had no more to say about 
it — no more that she could say, without revealing her 
delicate diplomacy. She would do that to nobody alive ; 
she had never stated it explicitly even to herself. There 
she left the affair, left the last word and a barren show 
of victory to her father. How much mischief he had 
done she would find out later — ^perhaps to-morrow, if 
Arthur Lisle came. But would he — now? It was the 
effect of her father’s meddling she feared, not that mat- 
ter of the lady’s visit She knew that he had other 
friends than themselves. Why shouldn’t one of them 
come and take him for a drive? It was Mrs. Norton 
Ward, very likely. Her quarrel with her father about 
his meddling even prevented her from asking what the 
visitor was like ; whatever he might do, she at least would 
show no vulgar curiosity. 

Yet it was the coincidence of the visit with the med- 
dling that did the mischief. Without the first, the second 
would have resulted in nothing worse than a temporary 
annoyance, a transitory check to Arthur’s feelings, which 
a few days’ time and Marie’s own tact would have 
smoothed over. As it was, his distaste for old Sarradet’s 
inquisition, an angry humiliation at having the pistol 
held to his head, a romantic abhorrence of such a way 
of dealing with the tender est and most delicate mat- 
ters, a hideous yet obstinate suspicion that Marie might 
be privy to the proceeding — all these set his feelings just 
in tune for the unexpected visit. 

The visit had been delightful, and delight is an un- 
settling thing. As Mrs. Godfrey Lisle — or Bernadette, 
as she bade him call her — purred about his room (so he 
put it to himself), still more when she declared for sun- 
shine and carried him off to drive with her — in Regent’s 

58 


A TIMELY DISCOVERY 


Park too! — he had felt a sudden lift of the spirit, an 
exaltation and expansion of feeling. The world seemed 
wider, its possibilities more various; it was as though 
walls had been torn down from around him — walls of 
his own choice and making, no doubt, but walls all the 
same. This sensation was very vague ; it was little more 
than that the whole atmosphere of his existence seemed 
fresher, more spacious, and more pungent. He owned 
ruefully that the barouche, the Cee-springs, the bay horses 
and the liveries might have had something to do with 
his pleasure ; he knew his susceptibility to the handsome 
things of material life — the gauds and luxuries — and ever 
feared to catch himself in snobbishness. But the es- 
sential matter did not lie there; his company was re- 
sponsible for that — Bernadette, and the way she had 
suddenly appeared and whisked him off as it were on 
a magic carpet for a brief journey through the heavens; 
it seemed all too brief. 

"T came as soon as ever I could,” she told him. ^T got 
Esther Norton Ward's letter about you after we’d gone to 
Hilsey for Easter, and we got back only yesterday. But 
I had terrible work to get leave to come. I had to go 
down on my knees almost! Cousin Arthur, you’re in 
disgrace, and when you come to see us, you must abase 
yourself before Godfrey. The Head of the House is 
hurt because you didn’t call!” 

^T know. It was awfully wrong of me, but ” 

‘T understand all about it. But Godfrey’s a stickler 
for his rights. However, Oliver and I managed to bring 
him round (‘Who’s Oliver?” asked Arthur inwardly), 
and when you’ve eaten humble pie it will be all right. 
Do you like humble pie, Arthur?” 

“No, I don’t.” 


59 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


more do I.” But she was smiling still, and he 
thought it was little of that stuff she would have to 
consume. ‘'You see, you made quite an impression on 
Esther. Oh, and Sir Christopher came down for a week- 
end, and he was full of your praises too.” She put on 
a sudden air of gravity. “I drove up to your door in 
a state of considerable excitement, and I had a momentary 
fear that the fat man with the black mustache was you. 
However it wasn’t — so that’s all right.” She did not 
ask who the fat man really was; Arthur was glad — all 
that could come later. 

In fact she asked him no questions about himself. 
She welcomed him with the glee of a child who has 
found a new toy or a new playmate. There was no hint 
of flirtation, no effort to make a conquest; a thing like 
that seemed quite out of her way. There was no pose, 
either of languor or of gush. The admiration of his 
eyes, which he could not altogether hide, she either did 
not notice or took as a matter of course — something 
universal and therefore, from a personal point of view, 
not important. On the other hand, he caught her look- 
ing at him with interest and critically. She saw that 
she was caught and laughed merrily over it. “Well, I do 
feel rather responsible for you, you know,” she said in 
self-defense. 

Life does do funny things all of a sudden ! He drove 
with her past the Sarradets’ house. He seemed, for the 
moment, a world away from it. They drove together for 
an hour ; they arranged that he should come to lunch on 
a day to be fixed after consultation with Godfrey — it 
appeared that Godfrey liked to be consulted — and then 
she set him down in the Marylebone Road. When he 
tried, rather stammeringly, to thank her, she shook her 
6o 


A TIMELY DISCOVERY 


head with a smile that seemed a little wistful, saying, 
‘‘No, I think it’s I who ought to thank you; you’ve given 
me an afternoon’s holiday — all to myself!” She looked 
back over her shoulder and waved her hand to him again 
as she turned down Harley Street and passed out of 
sight. When she was gone, the vision of her remained 
with him, but vaguely and rather elusively — a memory 
of gray eyes, a smooth rich texture of skin, mobile 
changeable lips, fair wavy hair — these in a setting of the 
richest apparel; an impression of something very bright 
and very fragile, carefully bestowed in sumptuous wrap- 
pings. 

He went to the Sarradets’ the next evening, as he had 
been bidden, but he went with laggard steps. He could 
not do what seemed to be expected of him there — not 
merely because it was expected, though that went for 
something considerable, thanks to his strain of fastidious 
obstinacy, but because it had become impossible for him 
to — his feelings sought a word and found only a very 
blunt and ungracious one — to tie himself up like that. 
His great contentment was impaired and could no longer 
absorb him. His sober scheme of happiness was crum- 
bling. His spirit was for adventure. Finality had become 
suddenly odious — and marriage presents itself as finality 
to those who are not yet married. If he had not been 
ready for the plunge before, now he was a thousand 
times less ready. 

The evening belied the apprehensions he had of it. 
There was a merry party — Mildred Quain, Amabel Os- 
ling, Joe Halliday, and half a dozen other young folk. 
And Mr. Sarradet was out! Dining at his club with 
some old cronies, Marie explained. There were games 
and music, plenty of chaff and a little horseplay. There 
6i 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


was neither the opportunity nor the atmosphere for sen- 
timent or sentimental problems. In gratitude to fate 
for this, and in harmony with what was his true inward 
mood behind and deeper than his perplexity, Arthur’s 
spirits rose high; he chaffed and sported with the mer- 
riest. Marie was easy, cordial, the best of friends with 
him — not a hint of anything except just that special and 
pleasant intimacy of friendship which made them some- 
thing more to one another than the rest of the company 
could be to either of them. She was just as she had 
always been — and he dismissed his suspicion. She had 
known nothing at all of Mr. Sarradet’s inquisition; she 
was in no way to blame for it. And if she were innocent, 
why, then, was not he innocent also? His only fault 
could lie in having seemed to her to mean what he had 
not meant. If he had not seemed to her to mean it, where 
was his fault, — and where his obligation? But if he 
acquitted Marie, and was quite disposed to acquit him- 
self, he nursed his grudge against old Sarradet for his 
bungling attempt to interfere between friends who un- 
derstood one another perfectly. 

Marie watched him, without appearing to watch, and 
was well content. Her present object was to set him 
completely at his ease again — to get back to where they 
were before Mrs. Veltheim interfered and her father 
blundered. If she could do that, all would be well ; and 
she thought that she was doing it. Had Mrs. Veltheim 
and Mr. Sarradet been the only factors in the case, she 
would probably have proved herself right; for she was 
skilful and tenacious, and no delicacy of scruple held 
her back from trying to get what she wanted, even when 
what she wanted happened to be a man to marry. There 
that toughness of hers served her ends well. 

62 


A TIMELY DISCOVERY 


When he said good night he was so comfortable about 
the whole position, so friendly to her and so conscious of 
the pleasure she had given him in the last few weeks, 
that he said with genuine ruefulness, “Back to the Tem- 
ple to-morrow ! I shan’t be able to play about so much r 

“No, you must work,” she agreed. “But try to come 
and see us now and then, when you’re not too busy.” 

“Oh, of course I shall — and I’m not at all likely to 
be busy. Only one has to stop in that hole — just in 
case.” 

“I mean — just when you feel like it. Don’t make a 
duty of it. Just when you feel inclined for a riot like 
this, or perhaps for a quiet talk some afternoon.” 

This was all just what he wanted to hear, exactly how 
he wanted the thing to be put. 

Yes, but Mr. Sarradet would not always be so oblig- 
ing as to be out! The thought of Mr. Sarradet, whom 
he had really forgotten, suddenly recurred to him un- 
pleasantly. 

“That’s what I like — our quiet talks,” she went on. 
“But you’ve only to say the word, and we’ll have com- 
pany for you.” 

Her tone was light, playful, chaffing. He answered 
in the same vein. “I’ll send my orders about that at 
least twelve hours beforehand.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” and, laughing, she dropped him 
a curtsey. 

He left them still at their frolic and went home rather 
early. He had enjoyed himself, but, all the same, his 
dominant sense was one of relief, and not merely from 
the obligation which officious hands had sought to thrust 
on him, regardless of the fact that he was not ready to 
accept it and might never be. It was relief from the 

63 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


sense of something that he himself had been doing, or 
been in danger of doing, to his own life — a thing which 
he vaguely defined as a premature and ignorant dis- 
posal of that priceless asset. Together with the youthful 
vanity which this feeling about his life embodied, there 
came to him also a moment of clear-sightedness, in the 
light of which he perceived the narrow limits of his 
knowledge of the world, of life, even of himself. He 
saw — the word is too strong, rather he felt somehow — 
that he had never really wanted Marie Sarradet to share, 
much less to be the greatest 'factor in, that precious, still 
unexplored life; he had really only wanted to talk to 
her about it, with her to speculate about it, to hear from 
her how interesting it was and might become. He wanted 
that still from her. Or at all events from somebody? 
From her or another? He put that question behind him 
— it was too sceptical ! He wanted still her interest, her 
sympathy. But he wanted something else even more — 
freedom to find, to explore, to fulfil his life. 

So it was that Mr. Arthur Lisle, by a fortunate com- 
bination of circumstances on which he certainly had no 
right to reckon, found out, just in time, that, after all, he 
had never been in love — unless indeed with his own 
comely image, flatteringly reflected in a girl’s admiring 
eyes. 

Poor tender diplomatist! But possibly she too might 
make her own discoveries. 


CHAPTER VII 


ALL OF A FLUTTER 

^'Bernadette’s got a new toy, Esther.” 

'T know it,” said Mrs. Norton Ward, handing her 
visitor a cup of tea. 

“Do you mean that you know the fact or that you’re 
acquainted with the individual?” 

“The latter, Judith. In fact I sent him to her.” 

“Well, it was she who went to him really, though God- 
frey made some trouble about it. He thought the young 
man ought to have called first. However they got round 
him.’^ 

“They? Who?” 

“Why, Bernadette and Oliver Wyse, of course. And 
hq came to lunch. But Godfrey was quite on his high 
horse at first — stroked his beard, and dangled his 
eyeglass, and looked the other way when he was 
spoken to — you know the poor old dear when he’s 
like that? Luckily the young man could tell Leeds 
from Wedgwood, and that went a long way toward 
putting matters right. Godfrey quite warmed to him at 
last” 

“We like him very much, and I hope you did — even 
if you won’t admit it. He’s got a room in Frank’s cham- 
bers, you know.” 

“I didn’t speak more than six words to him — ^he was 
up at the other end of the table by Bernadette. But I 

65 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


liked the look of him, rather. Of course he was all of 
a flutter.” 

'‘Oh, I daresay,” smiled Esther. “But I thought we 
ought to risk that — and Sir Christopher felt quite strongly 
about it.” 

Judith Arden appeared to reflect for a moment. “Well, 
I think he ought to be,” she said judicially. “I wouldn’t 
give much for a man who didn’t get into a flutter over 
Bernadette, at first anyhow. She must seem to them 
rather — well, irresistible.” 

“She’s wonderfully ” Esther Norton Ward sought 

for a word too — “radiant, I mean, isn’t she?” 

“And there isn’t a bit of affectation about her. She 
just really does enjoy it all awfully.” 

“All what?” ' 

“Why, being irresistible and radiant, of course.” 

“That’s looking at it entirely from her point of view.” 

“What point of view do you suppose she looks at it 
from? That is, if she ever looks at it at all. And why 
not? They ought to be able to look after themselves — 
or keep away.” 

“I really think you’re a very fair-minded girl,” laughed 
Esther. “Very impartial!” 

“You have to be — living with them, as much as I do.” 

“Do you like it?” 

Judith smiled. “The situation is saved just by my 
not having to do it. If I had to do it for my bread-and- 
butter I should hate it like poison. But, thank heaven. 
I’ve four hundred a year, and if I spend the summer with 
them it’s because Godfrey and Margaret want me. The 
winter I keep for myself — Switzerland part of the time, 
then Rome, or Florence. So I’m quite independent, you 
see. I’m always a visitor. Besides, of course, nobody 
66 


ALL OF A FLUTTER 


could be more gracious than Bernadette ; graciousness is 
part of being irresistible/' 

“I really do think that being pretty improves people/' 
said Esther. 

“Well, as far as I can see, without it there wouldn't he 
any Bernadette," Judith remarked, and then laughed 
gently at her own extravagance. “At any rate, she’d be 
bound to turn into something absolutely different. Some- 
thing like me even, perhaps !" She laughed again, a low, 
pleasant, soft laugh, rather in contrast with the slightly 
brusque tone and the satiric vein which marked her 
speech. The laugh seemed to harmonize with and to be- 
long to her eyes, which were dark, steady, and reflective ; 
the tone and manner to fall into line with the pertness of 
her nose, with its little jut skywards, and with the scorn- 
ful turn of her upper lip. Her figure and movements per- 
haps helped the latter impression too; she inclined to 
thinness, and her gestures were quick and sometimes 
impatient. 

“Come, you're not so bad," said Esther with her pleas- 
ant cordial candor. “Now I'm quite insignificant." 

“No, you’re not. You’ve got the grand manner. I 
heard Godfrey say so." 

Esther laughed, both at the compliment and at the 
authority vouched in support of it. 

“Oliver Wyse was at lunch too on the occasion, was 
he? How is he getting on?" 

“Sir Oliver is still his usual agreeable, composed, com- 
petent, and, I'm inclined to think, very wilful self." 

“Patient, though?" The question came with a mis- 
chievous glance. Judith's retort was ironic, both with 
eyes and tongue. 

“I permit myself any amount of comment on character 

67 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


but no conjectures as to facts. That’s the distinction 
between studying human nature and gossiping, Esther,” 

“Don’t snub mef And the distinction’s rather a fine 
one.” 

“No, gossip’s all right for you, living outside the house. 
I live so much inside it that I think it wouldn’t be fair 
in me. And, above all, owing to the footing on which 
I’m there — as I’ve told you — I am emphatically not a 
watch-dog.” 

“Where’s the child?” 

“She’s down at Hilsey — with the old housekeeper, Mrs. 
Gates — by doctor’s orders.” 

“Again ! Have you any comment to make on the doc- 
tor’s character?” 

“I think you’re being malicious. It’s really better for 
the child to be in the country. We’re very busy, all of 
us, and very gay — a bustle all the time. If she were 
here she’d only be with a nurse in the Park or in the 
nursery. And we’re only just back from three weeks 
at Hilsey ourselves.” 

“Yes, I think I was being malicious,” Esther admitted. 
“I suppose we’re all jealous of Bernadette in our hearts, 
and talk like cats about her! Well, you don’t!” 

“It would be ungrateful of me. She affords me a very 
great deal of pleasure. Besides, she’s my aunt.” 

“Well — by marriage.” 

“Oh, yes, entirely by marriage,” Miss Arden agreed 
with one of her fleeting smiles. She implied that no 
other form of auntship would be, as the advertisements 
say, “entertained” by Bernadette. “And even as to that 
I have, by request, dropped the title, both for her and 
Godfrey,” she added. 

Though Judith Arden was only just out of her teens, 
68 


ALL OF A FLUTTER 


she was older in mind and ways; she ranked herself, 
and was accepted, as contemporary with women in the 
middle and later twenties, like Bernadette and Esther 
Norton Ward. She had had to face the world practically 
by herself. An epidemic of fever in an Italian town had 
carried off father and mother when she was fifteen. She 
had got them buried, herself quarantined and back to 
England, unaided, as she best could. That was a de- 
veloping experience. At home she came under the guard- 
ianship of her uncle, Godfrey Lisle, which was much the 
same thing as coming under her own. Godfrey was not 
practical; the care of a growing girl was hopelessly be- 
yond him. Judith put herself to school at Paris; that 
finished with, she tried Cambridge for a term, and found 
it too like going back to school. She kept house for a 
while with an old school comrade, an art student, in 
Paris. The friend married, and she was by herself 
again A visit to Hilsey led to the sort of semi-attach- 
ment to the Godfrey Lisle household which she described 
to Esther; from the position of a '‘poor relation” she 
was saved by her four hundred pounds a year — her 
mother's portion; the late Mr. Arden, author of books 
on art, and travel in the interests of art, had left nothing 
but some personal debts behind. To the maturity of her 
world-experience there was one exception : she had never 
been in love; the transitory flirtation of ball-rooms and 
studios had left her amused but heart-whole. 

Her guardian had come by degrees to let himself be 
looked after by her a good deal. The inheritor of an old 
family estate worth some ten thousand pounds a year, 
Godfrey Lisle had been bred for a country squire, a local 
man of affairs, or (given aptitude for the wider sphere) a 
politician ; such were the traditions of the Lisles of Hilsey. 
69 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


In him they found no continuance. He was a shy quiet 
man, tall but rather awkward in person, and near- 
sighted; his face was handsome and refined and, when 
he was not embarrassed (he often was), his manner was 
pleasant, if too soft. But he did not like society, and 
was shy with strangers ; he would fumble with the black 
ribbon from which his glasses hung, and look the other 
way, as Judith had described. He was fond of beautiful 
things — pictures, china, furniture — but had not the energy 
to make himself a real amateur of any of them. His na- 
ture was affectionate — calmly affectionate, and the affec- 
tions were constant. Once, and once only, he had blazed 
into a flame of feeling — when he courted Bernadette 
and in the early days of his marriage with her. The 
beautiful penniless girl — she would have stirred even a 
fish to romance ; and it would not have been fair to call 
Godfrey fish-like. But ardors were not really in his line ; 
too soon the rapturous lover subsided into the affectionate 
husband. Bernadette had shown no signs of noticing the 
change ; perhaps she did not wish to check it. It may be 
that it coincided with a modification of her own feelings. 
At any rate, thus acquiesced in, it had gone further. 
Little of affection survived now, though they treated 
one another with the considerate politeness of an extinct 
passion. He gave her everything that she desired — 
even to the straining of his income; he was the only 
person for whom she ever ^^put herself out.” Here were 
reciprocal, if tacit, apologies for a state of affairs which 
neither of them really regretted. 

She had loved him, though, once. She did not claim 
it as a merit; there it was, a curious fact in her past 
life at which, in her rare moments of introspection, she 
would smile. She had loved not only all that he brought 
70 


ALL OF A FLUTTER 


— ease, wealth, escape from sordidness; she had also 
loved him for bringing them. Even now sometimes she 
would love the memory of him as he had seemed in those 
days; then the considerate politeness would be colored 
by a pretty tenderness, a sort of compassionate affection, 
as for a man who had fallen from high estate, inevitably 
fallen but blamelessly. However these recrudescences 
on the whole embarrassed Godfrey Lisle, and Bernadette, 
laughing at herself, withdrew to a safe distance and to 
her real interests. Godfrey was not one of the interests 
of her life; he was only one of its conditions. 

Into this household — though not, of course, below the 
surface of it — Arthur Lisle now made joyful and tremu- 
lous entry. His eyes were in no state to see clearly or 
to see far; they were glued to the central light, and for 
him the light burned bright to dazzling. Behold the 
vision that he saw — the vision of a Reigning Beauty ! 

It is a large party. There is no getting near her — at 
least no staying near. The crush forces a man away, 
however politely. But perhaps a far-off corner may af- 
ford a view, for a dexterous servant keeps clear a space 
just in front of her, and the onlooker is tall. They all 
come and speak to her, by ones and twos — ex-beauties, 
would-be beauties, rival beauties; for the last she has a 
specially cordial greeting — sometimes, if she knows them 
well, a word of praise for their gowns, always a quick 
approving glance at them. The great ladies come; for 
them a touch of deference, a pretty humility, a '‘Who 
am I that you should come to my house?” air, which 
gracefully masks her triumphant sense of personal power. 
The men come — all the young men who would adore if 
they might, and are very grateful for their invitations; 
they pass quickly, each with his reward of an indolent 

71 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


smile of welcome. The choice young men come; them 
she greets with a touch of distance, lest they should 
grow proud in their hearts. No favor in them to come 
— far from it! Then an old man, a friend. Mark now 
the change; she is daughter-like in her affection and 
simplicity. Then, perhaps, a little stir runs through the 
company, a whisper, a craning of necks. A great man 
is coming — for beauty can draw greatness. There comes 
a massive white head — a ribbon and star perhaps, or 
the plain black that gives, not wears, such ornaments. 
He stays with her longer: there is no jostling now; the 
dexterous servant delays the oncoming stream of guests. 
Royal compliments are exchanged. It is a meeting be- 
tween Potentates. 

In some such dazzling colors may the ardent imagina- 
tion of youth paint the quite ordinary spectacle of a 
pretty woman's evening party, while an old lady on one 
side of him complains that “everybody" is there, and 
an old man on the other says that it is a beastly crush, 
or damns the draught from a window behind him — lucky, 
perhaps, if he does not damn the Potentates too, the one 
for keeping him from his bed, the other for marching 
through rapine to dismemberment, or some such act of 
policy plainly reprehensible. 

Strange to think — it is Youth that holds the brush 
again — strange and intoxicating — that this is the woman 
with whom he drives in the Park, of whose family lunch- 
eon he partakes, with whom he had tea yesterday, who 
makes a friend of him. She talked to him an hour yes- 
terday, told him all about that hard childhood and girl- 
hood of hers, how she had scanty food and coarse, had 
to make her own frocks and wash her own handkerchiefs ; 
she said that she feared the hard training had made her 
72 


ALL OF A FLUTTER 


hard, yet hoped with a sigh that it was not so, and seemed 
to leave the question to his sovereign arbitrament. She 
had made the little narrow home she came from real to 
him with cunning touches; she had made her leap of 
escape from it so natural, so touching. Of what the 
leap had brought her she had made light, had spoken with 
a gentle depreciation of the place her beauty had won — 
‘"Such looks as I have helped, I suppose, besides God- 
frey’s position” — and let him see how much more to her 
taste was a quiet talk with a friend than all the functions 
of society. How much better than the receiving of 
Beauties and Potentates was a quiet hour in the twilight 
of her little den with Cousin Arthur! 

Could it be the same woman? Yes, it was. There 
was the wonder and the intoxication of it He was 
quite unknown to all that throng. But to himself 
he stood among them, eminent and superior. See, 
hadn’t she thrown him a glance — right across the 
room? Well, at any rate, he could almost swear she 
had! 

Arthur Lisle — in the flesh at his cousin’s evening party, 
in the spirit anywhere you like — felt a hand laid on his 
arm. He turned to find Sir Christopher Lance beside 
him. 

''Ah, Mr. Lisle, aren’t you glad you took my advice? 
I told you you were missing something by not coming 
here. Don’t you remember?” 

"Yes, sir, but you see, I didn’t know — I didn’t quite 
understand what you meant.” 

"You might have thought it worth while to find out,” 
said the old man, smiling. "As it was. I’m told you had 
to be fetched.” 

Arthur laughed shamefacedly but happily. That was 

6 73 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


already a standing joke between him and Bernadette; 
hence the associations of it were altogether pleasant. 

Sir Christopher’s way was not to spoil joy in the 
name of wisdom, nor to preach a safety that was to be 
won through cowardice. He saw the young man’s ex- 
citement and exaltation, and commended it. 

“Take as much of this sort of thing as you can get,” 
he counseled, nodding his head toward the crowd and, 
incidentally, toward Bernadette. “Take a good dose of 
the world. It’ll do you good. Society’s an empty thing 
to people with empty heads, but not to the rest of us. 
And the more you go about, and so on, well, the fewer 
terrors will my Brother Pretyman possess for you.” 

Arthur Lisle caught at the notion eagerly. “Just what 
I’ve had in my own mind, sir,” he said gravely. 

“I thought from the look of you that you had some 
such wise idea in your head,” said Sir Christopher with 
equal seriousness. 

Arthur blushed, looked at him rather apprehensively, 
and then laughed. The Judge remained grave, but his 
blue eyes twinkled distantly. O mihi prceteritos — that old 
tag was running in his head. 

“It’s getting late ; only bores stay late at large parties. 
Come and say good night to our hostess.” 

“Do you think we might?” asked Arthur. 

Certainly he was all of a flutter, as Judith Arden said. 


CHAPTER VIII 


NOTHING VENTURE, NOTHING HAVE! 

Arthur Lisle sat in his chambers with a copy of the 
current number of the Law Reports (K. B. D.) before 
him and with utter discouragement in his heart. This 
mood was apt to seize him in the mornings, after the 
nights of gaiety which (obeying Mr. Justice Lance's 
advice) he eagerly sought. To-day it was intensified by 
the fact that Bernadette had gone to Paris for a fort- 
night. She bade him an affectionate, almost a tender, 
farewell, but she went, and was obviously glad to go. 
Though he asked nothing from her except to let herself 
be adored with a dog-like adoration, a shamefaced won- 
der that she should be so glad to go hid in his heart; 
mightn’t she feel the loss of the adoration just a little 
more ? However, there it was ! And he had nothing to 
do. Also* he was hard up. The men he met at his parties 
had things to do and were doing them — interesting things 
that they could talk to women about, things they were 
actually doing, not mere hopes and dreams (such as 
had, not so long ago, been good enough to talk to Marie 
Sarradet about). They were making their marks, or, 
at least, some money. Talking of money, it was annoy- 
ing, indeed humiliating, not being able to ask Bernadette 
to lunch at the resorts and in the style to which she was 
accustomed. He had done this once, and the same after- 
noon had suddenly been confronted with an appalling 
75 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


shininess in the back of his dress-coat; the price of the 
lunch would pretty well have paid for a new coat. But 
there — if you gave parties you could not have new coats ; 
and what was the good of new coats unless you could 
give parties ? A vicious circle ! 

Stagnation! That was what his life was — absolute 
stagnation. No avenues opened, there were no prospects. 
Stagnation and Vacancy — that’s what it was! 

A strange contrast is this to the young man at the 
evening party? Nay, no contrast at all, but just the 
other side of him, the complement of the mood which 
had pictured Potentates and thrilled over the Reigning 
Beauty. The more ardently youth gives one hand to 
hope, the more fiercely despair clutches the other. 

Suddenly — even as Martin Luther flung his inkpot at 
Satan — Arthur Lisle with an oath seized the Law Re- 
ports (K. B. D.) and hurled them violently from him 
— across the room, with all his force, at this Demon of 
Stagnation and towards the door, which happened to be 
opposite. They struck — not the door — but the waistcoat 
of Henry, who at that moment opened it. Henry jumped 
in amazement. 

'^Beg your pardon, Henry. It slipped from my hand,” 
said Arthur, grinning in ill-tempered mirth. 

“Well, I thought no other gentleman was with you,” 
remarked Henry, whose ideas of why one should throw 
books about were obviously limited. “A Mr. Halliday is 
here, sir, and wants to know if you’ll see him.” 

“Of course I will. Show him in directly.” As Henry 
went out, Arthur ejaculated the word “Good!” 

Anybody would have been welcome — even Luther’s An- 
tagonist himself, perhaps — to Arthur in that black mood 
of his. Joe Halliday was a godsend. He carried cheer- 
76 


NOTHING VENTURE, NOTHING HAVE! 


fulness with him — not of the order commended by moral- 
ists and bred by patience out of trouble, but rather a spon- 
taneous hilarity of mind, thanks to which he derided the 
chances of life, and paddled his canoe with a laugh 
through the rapids of fortune. Joe had no settled means 
and he sdbrned any settled occupation. He preferred to 
juggle with half-a-dozen projects, keeping all of them 
in the air at once. He had something to sell and some- 
thing to buy, something to find or something to get rid 
of ; something had just been invented, or was just going 
to be; somebody needed money or somebody had it to 
invest. And all the Somebodies and Somethings were 
supposed to pay a toll to Joe for interesting himself in 
the matter. Generally they did; when they failed to he 
paddled gaily on to another venture — Cantabat vacuus. 
But on the whole he was successful. The profits, the 
commissions, the “turns” came rolling in — and were 
rolled out again with a festive and joyous prodigality that 
took no thought for a morrow which, under the guidance 
of an acute and sanguine intelligence, should not have the 
smallest difficulty in providing for itself. 

He bustled in and threw his hat on Arthur's table. 
“Morning, old chap. Sorry to interrupt I I expect you’re 
awfully busy? Yes, I see! I see! Look at the briefs! 
Mr. Arthur Lisle With you the Right Hon. Sir Rich- 

ard Finlayson, K.C., M.P . — 300 guineas. Whew ! Mr. 
Arthur Lisle With you ” He fingered the im- 

aginary briefs, rolling his eyes at Arthur, and scratching 
his big hooked nose with the other hand. 

“Go to the devil, Joe,” said Arthur, smiling, suddenly 
able to smile, at the Demon of Stagnation as represented 
by his empty table. “Have a cigarette?” 

“The subject of my call demands a pipe,” and he pro- 

77 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


ceeded to light one. “Have you got any money, Arthur ?” 

“I think you’re roughly acquainted with the extent 
of my princely income.” 

“Income isn’t money. Capital is. Turn your income 
into capital, and you’ve got money!” 

“It sounds delightfully simple, and must work well — 
for a time, Joe.” 

“I’ve got a real good thing. No difficulty, no risk — 
well, none to speak of. I thought you might like to 
consider it. I’m letting my friends have the first chance.” 

“What is it? Gold, rubber, or a new fastener for um- 
brellas?” Arthur was not a stranger to Joe’s variegated 
ventures. 

“It’s a deal safer than any of those. Did you ever see 
Help Me Out Quickly 

“Yes. I saw it at Worcester once. Quite funny !” 

“Well, a fellow who put five hundred into Help Me 
Out Quickly drew seventeen thousand in eighteen months 
and is living on it still. Arthur, I’ve found a farce com- 
pared to which Help Me Out Quickly is like the Dead 
March in Saul played by the vicar’s wife on a harmo- 
nium.” 

“And you want money to produce it?” 

“That’s the idea. Two thousand or, if possible, two 
thousand five hundred. We could get the Burlington in 
the autumn — ^first-rate theater. Lots of fun, and mints 
of money 1 The thing only wants seeing, doesn’t it ?” 

“What’s the use of talking to me, Joe? I haven’t 
got— — 

“We’re all of us going in — quite a family affair ! Ray- 
mond’s in it, and old Pa Sarradet has put a bit in for 
Marie. And Mildred’s governor has come in ; and Ama- 
bel has begged a pony of her governor, and put it in 

78 


NOTHING VENTURE, NOTHING HAVE! 


— just for a lark, you know. Fm in — shirt, and boots, and 
all. We’re all in — well, except Sidney. That chap’s got 
no spunk.” 

The inference about Arthur, if he did not ‘'come in,” 
was sadly obvious to himself, though Joe had not in the 
least meant to convey it. But that did not much affect 
him. The idea itself filled him with a sudden, a delicious, 
tingle of excitement. Lots of fun and mints of money! 
Could there be a program more attractive? Vacancy 
and Stagnation could not live in the presence of that. 

“Just for curiosity — how much more do you want to 
make it up?” asked Arthur. 

“A thousand.” Joe laughed. “Oh, I’m not asking 
you to put down all that. Just what you like. Only the 
more that goes in, the more comes out.” He laughed 
again joyfully; his prophetic eyes were already beholding 
the stream of gold ; he seemed to dip that beak of his in 
it and to drink deep. 

Arthur knew what his income was only too well — also 
what was his present balance at the bank. But, of 
course, his balance at the bank (twenty-six pounds odd) 
had nothing to do with the matter. His mind ran back 
to Help Me Out Quickly. How Mother, and Anna, and 
he had laughed over it at Worcester! One or two of 
the “gags” in it were household words among them at 
Malvern to this day. Now Joe’s farce was much, much 
funnier than Help Me Out Quickly. 

“I know just the girl for it too,” said Joe. “Quite 
young, awfully pretty, and a discovery of my own.” 

“Who is she?” 

Joe looked apologetic. “Awfully sorry, old fellow, but 
the fact is we’re keeping that to ourselves for the present. 
Of course, if you came in it’d be different.” 

79 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


The Law Reports still lay on the floor; Joe Halliday 
sat on the table — Sacred Love and Profane, Stern Duty 
and Alluring Venture. 

“I’m putting up five hundred. Be a sport, and cover 
it!” said Joe. 

Something in Arthur Lisle leapt to a tremendous de- 
cision — a wild throw with Fortune. “You can put me 
down for the thousand you want, Joe,” he said in quite 
a calm voice. 

“Christopher!” Joe ejaculated in amazed admiration. 
Then a scruple, a twinge of remorse, seized him for a 
moment. “That’s pretty steep, old chap — and nothing’s 
an absolute cert !” Temperament triumphed. “Though if 
there’s one on God’s earth we’ve got it!” 

“In for a penny, in for a pound! Nothing venture, 
nothing have !” cried Arthur, feeling wonderfully gleeful. 

“But, I say, wouldn’t you like to read it first ?” Con- 
science’s expiring spark ! 

“I’d sooner trust your opinion than my own. I may 
read it later on, but I’ll put down my money first.” 

“Well, I call you a sport!” Joe was moved and put 
out his hand. “Well, here’s luck to us !” 

Arthur had plunged into deep water, but it did not feel 
cold. He suffered no reaction of fear or remorse. He 
was buoyant of spirit. Life was alive again. 

“Of course I shall have to sell out. I haven’t the cash 
by me,” he said, smiling at the idea. The cash by him, 
indeed ! The cash that ought to keep him, if need be, for 
six or seven years, pretty near a quarter of all he had 
in the world, representing the like important fraction of 
his already inadequate income. Why, now the income 
would be hopelessly inadequate ! His mind was moving 
quickly. What’s the use of trying to live on an inade- 
8o 


NOTHING VENTURE, NOTHING HAVE! 


quate income? While Joe was yet in the room, Arthur 
formed another resolution — to realize and spend, besides 
Joe’s thousand (as his thoughts called it), another five 
hundred pounds of his money. “By the time that’s gone,” 
said the rapidly moving mind, “either I shall have made 
something or I shall have to chuck this — and thank 
heaven for it!” 

But all this while, notwithstanding his seething 
thoughts, he seemed very calm, gently inhaling his cig- 
arette smoke. Joe thought him the finest variety of 
“sport” — the deadly cool plunger. But he also thought 
that his friend must be at least a little better off than 
he had hitherto supposed — not that he himself, having 
the same means as Arthur, would not have risked as much 
and more without a qualm. But that was his temper 
and way of living; he had never credited Arthur with 
any such characteristics. However, his admiration re- 
mained substantially unchanged; many fellows with tons 
of money had no spunk. 

“May I tell them in Regent’s Park?” he asked. “It’ll 
make ’em all sit up.” 

“Tell them I’m in with you, but not for how much.” 

“I shall let ’em know you’ve done it handsome.” 

“If you like!” laughed Arthur. “How are they? I 
haven’t seen them just lately.” 

“They’re all right. You have been a bit of an absentee, 
haven’t you?” 

“Yes, I must go one day soon. I say, Joe, who are 
your stockbrokers?” 

Joe supplied him with the name of his firm, and then 
began to go. But what with his admiration of Arthur, 
and his enthusiasm for the farce, and the beauty and 
talent of the girl he had discovered, it was, or seemed, 
8i 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


quite a long time before he could be got out of the room. 
Arthur wanted him to go, and listened to all his trans- 
ports with superficial attention; his real mind was else- 
where. At last Joe did go — triumphant to the end, 
already fingering thousands just as, on his entrance, he 
had so facetiously fingered Arthur’s imaginary briefs. 
Arthur was left alone with the Law Reports — still on the 
floor where they had fallen in rebound from Henry’s 
waistcoat. Let them lie ! If they had not received notice 
to quit, they had at least been put very much on their 
good behavior. ^Trove you’re of some use, or out you 
go!” — ^Arthur had delivered to them his ultimatum. 

So much, then, for his Stem Mistress the Law — for 
her who arrogated the right to exact so much and in 
return gave nothing, who claimed all his days only to con- 
sume them in weary waiting, who ate up so much of his 
means with her inexorable expenses. She had tried to 
appease him by dangling before his eyes the uncertain 
distant prospect that in the space of years — some great, 
almost impossible, number of years — he would be pros- 
perous — that he would be even as Norton Ward was, 
with briefs rolling in, ‘"silk” in view, perhaps a candida- 
ture. It seemed all very remote to Arthur’s new im- 
patience. He set his Mistress a time-limit. If within the 
time that it took him to spend that five hundred pounds 
— he did not decide definitely how long it would be — she 
did something to redeem her promises, well and good, he 
would be prepared to give her a further trial. If not, he 
would betake himself, with his diminished income, to 
fresh woods and pastures new, lying over the Back of 
Beyond in some region unexplored and therefore pre- 
sumed to be fertile and attractive. He would, indeed, 
have no choice about the matter, since the diminished in- 
82 


NOTHING VENTURE, NOTHING HAVE! 


come would no longer meet her exactions, and yet enable 
him to live. A break with the Stern, and hitherto un- 
grateful, Mistress would be a matter of compulsion. He 
was very glad of it. 

What of that other — the Mistress of his Fancy, deli- 
cate sumptuous Cousin Bernadette? Vaguely, yet with 
a true instinct, he felt that she was at the back of this 
mood of his and the impulses it inspired. She was the 
ultimate cause, Joe Halliday’s sanguine suggestions but 
the occasion. Had he not outbid Joe’s daring with a 
greater of his own? She it was who had stirred him to 
discontent, be it divine or a work of the Devil’s; she it 
was who braved him to his ventures. She showed him 
the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them — or, 
at least, very tempting glimpses thereof; would she not 
herself be his guide through them, conferring on them 
thereby a greater glory ? In return he was ready enough 
to fall down and worship, asking for himself nothing but 
leave to kneel in the precincts of the shrine, not touching 
so much as the hem of her garment. 

In response to her beauty, her splendor, the treasure 
of her comradeship, he offered a devotion as humble and 
unselfish as it was ardent. But he burned to have an 
offering to lay at her feet — a venture achieved, the 
guerdon of a tournament. The smaller vanities worked 
with these high-flying sentiments. For her sake he would 
be comely and well-equipped, point device in his accou- 
terments; not a poor relation, client, or parasite, but a 
man of the world — a man of her world — on equal terms 
with others in it, however immeasurably below herself. 
If she thought him worthy of her favor, others must think 
him worthy too ; to which end he must cut a proper figure. 
And that speedily ; for a horrible little fiend, a little fiend 

83 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


clever at pricking young men’s vanity to the quick, had 
whispered in his ear that, if he went shabby and betrayed 
a lack of ready cash, Cousin Bernadette might smile — or 
be ashamed. Adoration must not have her soaring wings 
clipped by a vile Economy. 

All these things had been surging in him — confusedly 
but to the point of despair — when he threw the Law 
Reports across the room and hit Henry in the waist- 
coat; he had seemed caught hopelessly in his vicious 
circle, victim beyond help to the Demon of Stagnation. 
Not so strange, then, his leap for life and freedom, not 
so mad could seem the risks he took. Joe Halliday had 
come at a moment divinely happy for his purpose, and 
had found an audacity greater than his own, the audacity 
of desperation. Arthur himself wondered not at all at 
what he had done. But he admired himself for having 
done it, and was deliciously excited. 

Before he left the Temple — and he left that day for 
good at one o’clock, being by no means in the mood to 
resume the Law Reports — he wrote two letters. One was 
to the firm whose name Joe had given him ; it requested 
them to dispose of so much of his patrimony as would 
produce the sum of fifteen hundred pounds. The other 
was to his mother. Since it contained some observations 
on his position and prospects, an extract from it may 
usefully be quoted : 

Since I last wrote, I have been considering what is the 
wisest thing to do with regard to the Bar. No work has 
appeared yet. Of course it’s early days and I am not going 
to be discouraged too easily. The trouble is that my neces- 
sary expenses are heavier than I anticipated; chambers, 
clerk, circuit, etc., eat into my income sadly, and even with 

84 


NOTHING VENTURE, NOTHING HAVE! 


the strictest economy it will, Fm afraid, be necessary to 
encroach on my capital. I have always been prepared to 
do this to some extent, regarding it as bread cast upon the 
waters, but it clearly would not be wise to carry the process 
too far. I must not exhaust my present resources unless 
my prospects clearly warrant it. Of course I shall come to 
no hasty decision ; we can talk it all over when Fm with you 
in the summer. But unless some prospects do appear within 
a reasonable time, I should be disposed to turn to something 
else while I still have enough capital to secure an opening. 
. . . You were quite right, dear Mother, about my calling 
on the Godfrey Lisles, and I was quite wrong — as usual! 
I’m ever so glad Fve made friends with them at last. They 
are both delightful people, and they’ve got a charming house. 
I’ve been to several parties there, and have met people who 
ask me to other houses, so I’m getting quite gay. Cousin 
Godfrey is quiet and reserved, but very kind. Cousin Berna- 
dette is really awfully pretty and jolly, and always seems 
glad to see me. She says she’s going to launch me in so- 
ciety! I don’t object, only, again, it all costs money. Well, 
I think it’s worth a little, don’t you? 

And there was a postscript: 

Don’t worry over what Fve said about money. Fm all 
right for the present, and — between ourselves — Fve already 
something in view — apart from the Bar — which is quite 
promising. 

'‘What a wise, prudent, thoughtful boy it is !’' said the 
proud mother. 


CHAPTER IX 


A COMPLICATION 

Bernadette Lisle’s foray on the shops of Paris, un- 
dertaken in preparation for the London season, was of so 
extensive an order as to leave her hardly an hour of the 
day to herself ; and in the evenings the friends with whom 
she was staying — Mrs. and Miss Stacey Jenkinson, Eu- 
ropeanized Americans and most popular people — insisted 
on her society. So it was with the greatest difficulty 
that she had at last got away by herself and was able 
to come to lunch. 

“Though even now,” she told Oliver Wyse, as they sat 
down together at the Cafe de Paris, “it’s a secret assig- 
nation. I’m supposed to be trying on hats!” 

“All the sweeter for secrecy, and I suppose we’re not 
visible to more than two hundred people.” 

He had a fine voice, not loud but full and resonant. 
There were many things about him that Bernadette liked 
— his composure, his air of being equal to all things, his 
face and hands browned by the sun in southern climes, 
his keen eyes quickly taking in a character or ap- 
prehending a mood. But most of all to her fancy was 
his voice. She told him so now with her usual natural- 
ness. 

“It is pleasant to hear your voice again.” She gave him 
a quick merry glance. “Do you mind my saying that?” 

“Yes, I hate compliments.” 

86 


A COMPLICATION 


“I’m sorry.” She was chaffing him, but she did it 
with a subtle little touch of deference, quite unlike any- 
thing in her manner toward either her husband or her 
new toy. Cousin Arthur. .In this again she was, while 
pretty, natural. Oliver Wyse was a dozen years her 
senior, and a distinguished man. He had a career behind 
him in the Colonial Service, a career of note, and was 
supposed to have another still in front of him in the di- 
rectorate of a great business with world-wide interests. 
To take up this new work — very congenial and promising 
much wealth, which had not hitherto come his way — he 
had bade farewell to employment under Government. 
Some said his resignation had been hailed with relief, 
since he did not count among his many virtues that of 
being a very docile subordinate. His representations were 
apt to be more energetic, his interpretation of orders less 
literal, than official superiors at the other end of the 
cable desired. So, with many compliments and a Knight 
Commandership of the appropriate Order, he was grace- 
fully suffered to depart. 

“But a jolly little lunch like this is worth a lot of meet- 
ings at squashes and so on, isn’t it? By the way, you 
didn’t come to mine the other day. Sir Oliver.” (She 
referred to the party which Mr. Arthur Lisle had at- 
tended.) 

“I don’t like squashes.” 

“Compliments and squashes ! Anything else ? I want 
to know what to avoid, please.” She rested her chin 
on her hand and looked at him with an air of wondering 
how far she could safely go in her banter. 

“I’m not sure I like handsome young cousins very 
much.” 

“I haven’t any more — at least I’m afraid not! Even 

87 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Arthur was quite a surprise. I believe I should never 
have known of him but for Esther Norton Ward.” 

“Meddling woman ! For a fortnight after his appear- 
ance I was obviously de trop” 

“I was afraid he’d run away again; he’s very timid. 
I had to tie him tight at first.” 

“Suppose I had run away? You don’t seem to have 
thought of that.” 

Her changeful lips pouted a little. “I might run after 
you, I shouldn’t after Arthur — and then I could bring 
you back. At least, could I, Sir Oliver? Oh, dear, I’ve 
very nearly paid you another compliment!” 

“I didn’t mind that one so much. It was more subtle.” 

“I don’t believe you mind them a bit, so long as they’re 
— well, ingenious enough. You’ve been spoiled by Be- 
gums, or Ranees, or whatever they’re called, I expect.” 

“That’s true. You must find me very hard to please, 
of course.” 

“Well, there’s a — ^a considering look in your eyes some- 
times that I don’t quite like,” said Bernadette. She 
laughed, sipped her wine, and turned to her cutlet with 
good appetite. 

She spoke lightly, jestingly, but she laid her finger 
shrewdly on the spot. She charmed him, but she puzzled 
him too ; and Oliver Wyse, when he did not understand, 
was apt to be angry, or at least impatient. A man of 
action and of ardor, of strong convictions and feelings, he 
could make no terms with people who were indifferent to 
the things he believed in and was moved by, and who 
ordered their lives — or let them drift — along lines which 
seemed to him wrong or futile. He was a proselytizer, 
and might have been, in other days, a persecutor. Not 
to share his views and ideals was a blunder bordering 
88 


A COMPLICATION 


on a crime. Even not to be the sort of man that he was 
constituted an offense, since he was the sort of man of 
whom the Empire and the World had need. Of this 
offense Godfrey Lisle was guilty in the most heinous 
degree. He was quite indifferent to all Oliver’s causes 
— to the Empire, to the World, to a man’s duty towards 
these great entities; he drifted through life in a hazy 
aestheticism, doing nothing, being profoundly futile. His 
amiability and faithful affections availed nothing to save 
him from condemnation — old maids’ virtues, both of 
them ! Where were his feelings ? Had he no passion in 
him? A poor, poor creature, but half a man, more like 
a pussy-cat, a well-fed old pussy-cat that basks before 
the fire and lets itself be stroked, too lazy to catch mice 
or mingle in affrays at midnight. An old house-cat, truly 
and properly contemptible ! 

But inoffensive? No, not to Oliver’s temper. Dis- 
tinctly an offense on public and general grounds, a person 
of evil example, anathema by Oliver’s gospel — and a 
more grievous offender in that, being what he was, he 
was Bernadette’s husband. What a fate for her ! What 
a waste of her ! What emptiness for mind and heart must 
lie in existence with such a creature — it was like living in 
a vacuum! Her nature must be starved, her capacities 
in danger of being stunted. Surely she must be su- 
premely unhappy? 

But to all appearances she was not at all unhappy. 
Here came the puzzle which brought that “considering 
look” into his eyes and tinged it with resentment, even 
while he watched with delight the manifold graces of 
her gaiety. 

If she were content, why not leave her alone? That 
would not do for Oliver. She attracted him, she charmed 
7 89 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


his senses. Then she must be of his mind, must see 
and feel things as he did. If he was bitterly discontented 
for her, she must be bitterly discontented for herself. 
If he refused to acquiesce in a stunted life for her, to 
her too the stunted life must seem intolerable. Other- 
wise what conclusion was there save that the fair body 
held a mean spirit? The fair body charmed him too 
much to let him accept that conclusion. 

"‘Enjoying your holiday from home cares?” he asked. 

“I’m enjoying myself, but I haven’t many home cares. 
Sir Oliver.” 

“Your husband must miss you very much.” 

She looked a little pettish. “Why do you say just 
the opposite of what you mean? You’ve seen enough 
of us to know that Godfrey doesn’t miss me at all; he 
has his own interests. I couldn’t keep that a secret from 
you, even if I wanted to; and I don’t particularly want. 
You’re about my greatest friend and ” 

“About?” 

“Well, my greatest then — and don’t look as if somebody 
had stolen your umbrella.” 

He broke into a laugh for an instant, but was soon 
grave again. She smiled at him appealingly; she had 
been happier in the light banter with which they had 
begun. That she thoroughly enjoyed; it told her of his 
admiration, and flattered her with it; she was proud of 
the friendship it implied. When he grew serious and 
looked at her ponderingly, she always felt a little afraid ; 
and he had been doing it more and more every time they 
met lately. It was as though he were thinking of putting 
some question to her — some grave question to which she 
must make answer. She did not want that question put. 
Things were very well as they stood; there were draw- 
90 


A COMPLICATION 


backs, but she was not conscious of anything very seri- 
ously wrong. She found a great deal of pleasure and 
happiness in life; there were endless small gratifications 
in it, and only a few rubs, to which she had become pretty 
well accustomed. Inside the fair body there was a rea- 
sonable little mind, quite ready for reasonable compro- 
mises. 

They had finished their meal, which Bernadette, at 
least, had thoroughly appreciated. She lit a tiny cig- 
arette and watched her companion; he had fallen into 
silence over his cigar. His lined bronzed face looked 
thoughtful and worried. 

“Oh, you think too much,’" she told him, touching his 
hand for an instant lightly. “Why don’t you just enjoy 
yourself? At any rate when you’re lunching with a 
friend you like!” 

“It’s just because I like the friend that I think so 
much.” 

“But what is there to think so much about?” she cried, 
really rather impatiently. 

“There’s the fact that I’m in love with you to think 
about,” he answered quietly. It was not a question, 
but it was just as disconcerting as the most searching 
interrogatory; perhaps, indeed, it differed only in form 
from one. 

“Oh, dear!” she murmured, half under her breath, 
with a frown and a pout. Then came a quick persuasive 
smile. “Oh, no, you’re not! I daresay you think me 
pretty and so on, but you’re not in love.” She ventured 
further — so far as a laugh. “You haven’t time for it. Sir 
Oliver!” 

He laughed too. “I’ve managed to squeeze it in, I’m 
afraid, Bernadette.” 


91 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


^‘Can’t you manage to squeeze it out again ? Won’t you 
try?” 

“Why should I? It suits me very well where it 
is.” 

She made a little helpless gesture with her hands, as 
if to say, “What’s to be done about it?” 

“You’re not angry with me for mentioning the fact?” 

“Angry? No. I like you, you see. But what’s the 
use ?” 

He looked her full in the eyes for a moment. “We 
shall have to discuss that later.” 

“What’s the use of discussing? You can’t discuss 
Godfrey out of existence!” 

“Not out of existence — practically speaking?” 

“Oh, no! Nonsense! Of course not!” She was gen- 
uinely vexed and troubled now. 

“All right. Don’t fret,” he said, smiling. “It can 
wait.” 

She looked at him gravely, her lips just parted. “You 
do complicate things !” she murmured. 

“You’d rather I’d held my tongue about it?” 

“Yes, I would — much.” * 

“I couldn’t, you see, any longer. I’ve been wanting 
to say it for six months. Besides I think I’m the sort 
of fellow who’s bound to have a thing like that out and 
see what comes of it — follow it to the end, you know.” 

She thought that he probably was; there lay the 
trouble. The thing itself was pleasant enough to her, but 
she did not want to follow it out. If only he would have 
left it where it was — under the surface, a pleasant sub- 
consciousness for them both, blending with their friend- 
ship a delightful sentiment! Dragged into the open like 
this, it was very hard to deal with. 

92 


A COMPLICATION 


“Can't you try and forget about it?" she whispered 
softly. 

“Oh, my dear !" he muttered, laughing in a mixture of 
amusement and exasperation. 

She understood something of what his tone and his 
laugh meant. She gave him a quick little nod of sym- 
pathy. “Is it as bad as that? Then my question was 
stupid," she seemed to say. But though she understood, 
she had no suggestion to offer. She sat with her brows 
furrowed and her lips pursed up, thoroughly outfaced by 
the difficulty. 

“You go back home to-morrow, don’t you?" he asked. 

“Yes. And you?" 

“In a few days. I’ve not quite finished my business. 
Do you want me to come to the house, as usual ?" 

“Oh, yes," she answered quickly, her brow clearing. 

“In the hope that I shall get over it?" 

“Yes." 

“I shan’t, you know." 

“You can never tell. Godfrey was in love with me 
once. I was in love with him too." Her expression 
plainly added what her lips refrained from: “Isn’t that 
funny ?’’ 

He shrugged his shoulders, in refusal to consider so 
distasteful a subject. Her mind appeared to dwell on 
it a little, for she sat smiling reflectively. She had re- 
covered quickly from her alarmed discomfort; in fact 
she seemed so at ease, so tranquil, that he was prompted 
to say — saying it, however, with a smile — “I didn’t in- 
troduce the topic just to pass the time after lunch, you 
know." He paused and then added gravely but simply, 
“I want you to look back on this as the greatest day in 
your life." 


93 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Ever so slightly she shook her head. The room was 
nearly empty now; the few who lingered were no less 
absorbed than themselves. He put his hand on the top 
of her right hand on the table. ‘There’s my pledge for 
life and all I’m worth — if you will,” he said. 

At this she seemed moved by some feeling stronger 
than mere embarrassment or discomfort. She gave a lit- 
tle shiver and raised her eyes to his with a murmured 
“Don’t!” It was as though she now, for the first time, 
realized to some extent not only what he meant but what 
he felt, and that the realization caused her a deeper alarm. 
She sighed as though under some weight and now, also 
for the first time, blushed brightly. But when they were 
going to the door, she put her arm inside his for a mo- 
ment, and gave him a friendly little squeeze. When he 
looked round into her face, she laughed rather nervously. 
“We’re dear friends, anyhow,” she said. “You can walk 
with me to my hat shop, if you like.” 

“I won’t come in,” he protested in a masculine horror 
that she liked. 

“Nobody asked you. I expect to find Laura Jenkinson 
waiting for me there. As it’s your fault I’m so late, she’d 
be very cross with you.” 

They walked up the street together in silence for a 
little way. Then his attention was caught by a wonderful 
gown in a shop window and he turned to her to point 
it out, with a laugh; he had determined to press her no 
further that day. To his surprise he saw that her eyes 
were dim; a tear trickled down her cheek. 

“Why, Bernadette !” he began in shocked re- 

morse. 

“Yes, I know,” she interrupted petulantly. “Well, you 
frightened me. I’m — I’m not used to things like that.” 

94 


A COMPLICATION 


Then she too saw the startling frock. “Look at that, Sir 
Oliver! I don’t believe I should ever dare to wear it!’^ 

“I fancy it’s meant to appeal to ladies of another sort.” 

“Is it? Don’t they wear just what we do? Well, just 
a little more so, perhaps!” She stood eyeing the gown 
with a whimsical smile. “It is rather naughty, isn’t 
it?” She moved on again. He watched her face now. 
She had wiped away the tear; no more came; she was 
smiling, not brightly, but yet with a pensive amusement. 
Presently she asked him a question. 

“By what you said there — in the cafe, you know — did 
you mean that you wanted me to run away with you?” 

He was rather surprised at her returning to the sub- 
ject. “I meant that I wanted to take you away with me. 
There’d be no running about it.” 

“What, to do it — openly?” 

“Anything else wouldn’t be at all according to my 

ideas. Still ” He shrugged his shoulders again; he 

was not sure whether, under stress of temptation, he 
would succeed in holding to his point. 

She began to laugh, but stopped hastily when she saw 
that he looked angry. “Oh, but you are absurd, you 
really are,” she told him, in a gentle soothing fashion. 

“I don’t see that anybody could call it absurd,” he re- 
marked, frowning. “Some good folk would no doubt 
call it very wicked.” 

“Well, I should, for one,” said Bernadette, “if that’s 
of any importance.” 

She made him laugh again, as she generally could. “I 
believe I could convince you, if that’s the obstacle,” he 
began. 

“I don’t suppose it is really — not the only one, anyhow. 
Oh, here’s the shop !” 


95 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


She stopped, but did not give him her hand directly. 
She was smiling, but her eyes seemed large with alarm 
and apprehension. 

“I do wish you’d promise me never to say another word 
about this.” There was no doubt of her almost pitiful 
sincerity. It made him very remorseful. 

'T wish to God I could, Bernadette,” he answered. 

‘‘You’re very strong. You can,” she whispered, her 
face upturned to his. 

He shook his head; now her eyes expressed a sort of 
wonder, as if at something beyond her understanding. 
“I’m very sorry,” he muttered, in compunction. 

She sighed, but gave him her hand with a friendly 
smile. “No, don’t be unhappy about it — about having 
told me, I mean. I expect you couldn’t help it. Au 
revoir — in London !” 

“Couldn’t we dine, or go to the play, or something, 
to-night ?” It was hard to let her out of his sight. 

“I’m engaged, and ” She clasped her hands for a 

moment, as though in supplication. “Please not, Oliver !” 
she pleaded. 

He drew back a little, taking off his hat. Her cheeks 
were glowing again as she turned away and went into 
the shop. 


CHAPTER X 


THE HERO OF THE EVENING 

That same afternoon — the day before Bernadette was 
to return from Paris — Marie Sarradet telephoned to Ar- 
thur, asking him to drop in after dinner, if he were free ; 
besides old friends, a very important personage was to be 
there — Mr. Claud Beverley, the author of the wonderfully 
funny farce ; Marie named him with a thrill in her voice 
which even the telephone could not entirely smother. 
Arthur was thrilled too, though it did cross his mind that 
Mr. Claud Beverley must have rechristened himself ; au- 
thors seldom succeed in achieving such suitable names as 
that by the normal means. Though he was still afraid of 
Mr. Sarradet and still a little embarrassed about Marie 
herself, he determined to go. He put on one of his new 
evening shirts — with pleats down the front — and one of 
his new white evening waistcoats, which was of ex- 
tremely fashionable cut and sported buttons somewhat 
out of the ordinary ; these were the first products of the 
five hundred pounds’ venture. He looked, and felt, very 
well turned-out. 

Old Mr. Sarradet was there this time, and he was 
grumpy. Marie seized a chance to whisper that her father 
was “put out” because Raymond had left business early 
to go to a race meeting and had not come back yet — 
though obviously the races could not still be going on. 
Arthur doubted whether this were the whole explana- 
97 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


tion; the old fellow seemed to treat him with a distance 
and a politeness in which something ironical rriight be 
detected; his glance at the white waistcoat did not look 
wholly like one of honest admiration. Marie too, 4:hough 
as kind and cordial as possible, was perhaps a shade less 
intimate, less at ease with him; any possible sign of ap- 
propriating him to herself was carefully avoided; she 
shared him, almost ostentatiously, with the other girls — 
Amabel and Mildred. Any difference in Marie’s demean- 
or touched his conscience on the raw; the ingenious ar- 
gument by which he had sought to acquit himself was 
not quite proof against that. 

Nothing, however, could seriously impair the interest 
and excitement of the occasion. They clustered round 
Mr. Beverley; Joe Halliday saw to that, exploiting his 
hero for all he was worth. The author was tall, gaunt, 
and solemn-faced. Arthur’s heart sank at the first sight 
of him — could he really write anything funny? But he 
remembered that humorists were said to be generally 
melancholy men, and took courage. Mr. Beverley stood 
leaning against the mantelpiece, receiving admiration and 
consuming a good deal of the champagne which had been 
produced in his special honor. Joe Halliday presented 
Arthur to him with considerable ceremony. 

*‘Now we’re all here!” said Joe. “For I don’t mind 
telling you, Beverley, that without Lisle’s help we should 
be a long way from — from — well, from standing where 
we do at present.” 

Arthur felt that some of the limelight — to use a 
metaphor appropriately theatrical — ^was falling on him. 
“Oh, that’s nothing! Anything I could afford — awfully 
glad to have the chance,” he murmured, rather con- 
fusedly. 


98 


THE HERO OF THE EVENING 


“And he did afford something pretty considerable/’ 
added Joe admiringly. 

“Of course I can’t guarantee success. You know 
what the theater is,” said Mr. Beverley. 

They knew nothing about it — ^and even Mr. Beverley 
himself had not yet made his bow to the public ; but they 
all nodded their heads wisely. 

“I do wish you would tell us something about it, Mr. 
Beverley !” said impulsive Amabel. 

“Oh, but I should be afraid of letting it out!” cried 
Mildred. 

“The fact is, you can’t be too careful,” said Joe. “There 
are fellows who make a business of finding out about 
forthcoming plays and stealing the ideas. Aren’t there, 
Beverley ?” 

“More than you might think,” said Mr. Beverley. 

“I prefer to be told nothing about it,” Marie declared, 
smiling. “I think that makes it much more exciting.” 

“I recollect a friend of mine — in the furniture line — 
thirty years ago it must be — taking me in with him to 

see a rehearsal once at the Now, let’s see, what was 

the theater? A rehearsal of — tut! — Now what was the 
play ?” Old Mr. Sarradet was trying to contribute to the 
occasion, but the tide of conversation overwhelmed his 
halting reminiscences. 

“But how do you get the idea, Mr. Beverley ?” 

“Oh, well, that may come just at any minute — any- 
where, you know.” 

“Where did this one come ?” 

“Oh, I got this one, as it happens, walking on Hamp- 
stead Heath!” 

“Hampstead Heath ! Fancy !” breathed Amabel Osling, 
in an awed voice. 


99 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAl^ 


‘‘And you went straight home and wrote it out ?” asked 
'Mildred Quain. 

''Oh, I’ve got my office in the daytime. I can only 
write at nights.” 

"Bit of a strain!” murmured Joe. 

"It is, rather. Besides, one doesn’t begin by writing it 
out. Miss Quain.” He smiled in condescending pity. 
"One has to construct, you see.” 

"Yes, of course. How stupid of me!” said Mildred, 
rather crestfallen. 

"Not a bit. Miss Quain. You naturally didn’t real- 
ize ” Mr. Beverley seemed genuinely sorry if he 

had appeared to snub her. "And I — I should like to tell 
you all how much I — I feel what you’re doing. Of 
course I believe in the thing myself, but that’s no rea- 
son why Well, I tell you I do feel it. I — I feel it 

really.” 

They had admired him before ; they liked him the better 
for this little speech. He came off his pedestal, and made 
himself one of them — a co-adventurer. His hesitation 
and his blush revealed him as human. They got a new 
and pleasantly flattering sense of what they were doing. 
They were not only going to make money and have fun ; 
they were helping genius. 

Joe raised his glass. "Here’s luck to the Author and 
the Syndicate!” 

"The what?” asked Amabel Osling. "I mean, what is 
a syndicate?” 

"We are!” answered Joe, with mock solemnity. "Fill 
your glasses — and no heel-taps!” 

They drank to Mr. Claud Beverley and their enterpris- 
ing selves. Joe clasped the author’s hand. Mr. Beverley 
drained his glass. 


ICX) 


THE HERO OF THE EVENING 


^‘Here's luck he echoed. There was just a little 
shake in his voice ; the occasion was not without its emo- 
tions for Mr. Beverley. Never before had he been the 
Hero of the Evening. His imagination darted forward 
to a wider triumph. 

Arthur was moved too. He felt a generous envy for 
Mr. Beverley, awkward and melancholy as he was. Bev- 
erley was doing something — really off his own hat. That 
was great. Well, the next best thing was to help — to be 
in the venture; even that was making something of life. 
As he listened to the talk and shared in the excitement, 
his embarrassment had worn away ; and old Sarradet him- 
self had clinked glasses with him cordially. 

Just on the heels of Mr. Beverley’s “Here’s luck!” — 
almost clashing with it — came a loud ring at the front 
door. 

“Why, who’s that?” exclaimed Marie. 

They heard the scurry of the maid’s feet. Then came 
a murmur of voices and the noise of the door closing. 
Then a full hearty voice — known to them all except Mr. 
Beverley — said: “That’s better, old chap! You’re all 
right now !” 

The maid threw open the door of the room, and the 
festive and excited group inside received a sudden shock 
that banished all thought of Author and Syndicate alike. 
Very pale, very disheveled, and seeming to totter on his 
feet, Raymond Sarradet came in, supported by Sidney 
Barslow’s sturdy arm round his shoulders. Sidney was 
disheveled too ; his coat was torn all down the front, his 
hat was smashed. He had a black eye, a cut on the lip, 
and a swollen nose. They were a dismal battered pair. 

“That’s right, old chap! Here’s a chair.” Sidney 
gently deposited his friend in a seat and looked round at 

lOI 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


the astonished company. '‘They gave him a fair knock- 
out/’ he said, “but he’s come round now.” Then he 
spoke to Marie directly : “Still I thought I’d better see 
him home — he’s a bit shaky.” 

“Oh, but you too!” she exclaimed. And to the maid 
she added : “Bring some hot water and a sponge quickly 
— and towels, you know — Oh, and plaster! Be quick!” 

“What the devil is all this?” demanded old Sarradet, 
very red and very bristly. 

“They’d have had everything out of me, but for Sid- 
ney. Lucky if they hadn’t killed me!” said Raymond, 
resting his head on his hand. “Gad, how my head 
aches!” 

Amabel came and laid her hand on his forehead. “Poor 
boy ! What can have happened ?” 

“Give them some champagne, Joe. Oh, Sidney, you are 
hurt ! Here’s the hot water ! Now let me !” 

Sidney gave himself up to Marie’s ministrations. Ama- 
bel and Mildred bathed Raymond’s head with eau-de- 
cologne. Joe poured out champagne. The other men 
stood about,' looking as if they would like to do some- 
thing but could not think of anything to do. In the 
course of the ministrations the story gradually came out. 

The two had gone to a suburban race meeting together. 
Fortune favored Raymond, and he came away with con- 
siderably more money than he started with. Three agree- 
able strangers got into their carriage, coming home. Ray- 
mond joined them in a game of cards, Sidney sitting out. 
On arrival at Waterloo, the agreeable strangers proposed 
a “bite” together — and perhaps another little game after- 
wards ? Sidney tried to persuade Raymond to refuse the 
invitation, but Raymond persisted in accepting it, and his 
friend would not leave him. The story continued on 
102 


THE HERO OF THE EVENING 


familiar lines — so familiar that Sidney’s suspicions were 
very natural. There was the “bite,” the wine, the game — 
Sidney still not playing. There was the lure of tempo- 
rary success, the change of fortune, the discovery of the 
swindling. 

“Sidney was looking on, you know,” said Raymond, 
“and he nudged me. I had an idea myself by then, and I 
knew what he meant. So I watched, and I saw him do 
it — the big one with the red hair — ^you saw him too, didn’t 
you, Sidney? Well, I was excited and — and so on, and 
I just threw my cards in his face. The next minute 
they rushed us up into a corner and went for us like 
blazes, the three of them. I did my best, but I’m only a 
light weight. The big chap gave me one here” — he 
touched the side of his chin — “and down I went. I 
could call ^Murder !’ — I wasn’t unconscious — ^but that’s all 
I could do. And the three of them went for Sidney. 
By Jove, you should have seen Sidney!” 

“Rot 1” came in a muffled tone from Sidney, whose lips 
were being bathed and plastered. 

“He kept them all going for the best part of five min- 
utes, I should think, and marked ’em too; gave ’em as 
good as he got! And I shouted ^Murder!’ all the time. 
And that’s what it would have been, if it had gone on 
much longer. But the waiters came at last — we were in 
some kind of restaurant near Waterloo. I don’t fancy 
the people were particular, but I suppose they didn’t want 
murder done there. And so they came, and our friends 
made a bolt.” 

“But did nobody call the police?” asked Marie indig- 
nantly. 

“Well,” said Raymond, “they’d gone, you see, and ” 

He smiled weakly. 


103 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“It doesn’t do any good to have that sort of thing in 
the papers/’ Sidney remarked. 

“There you’re quite right,” said old Sarradet, with em- 
phasis. He came up to Sidney and laid his hand on his 
shoulder. “Thank you, Barslow, for looking after that 
young fool of mine,” he added. “You showed great cour- 
age.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind a scrap, sir !” said Sidney. “I like 
the exercise.” 

“Oh, Sidney!” murmured Marie, in a very low voice, 
not far from a sob. The other girls clapped their hands ; 
the men guffawed; Mr. Claud Beverley made a mental 
note — “Not a bad line, that !” 

Amid the clash of arms the laws are silent, and 
even the arts do not go for much. Not Arthur’s legal 
status nor yet his new elegance, no, nor Mr. Claud Bev- 
erley’s genius, had any more chance that evening. The 
girls were aflame with primitive woman’s admiration of 
fighting man — of muscles, skill, and pluck. Joe was an 
amateur of the Noble Art, and must have every detail of 
the encounter. Old Sarradet fussed about, now scolding 
his son, now surreptitiously patting him on the shoulder, 
always coming back to Sidney with fresh praises and 
fresh proffers of champagne. Marie took her seat per- 
manently by the wounded warrior’s side, and delicately 
conveyed the foaming glass to his lacerated lips. More 
than admiration was in her heart; she was a prey to 
severe remorse. She had sent this man into banishment 
— a harsh sentence for a hasty word. His response was to 
preserve her brother ! 

Marie would have been more or less than human if she 
had not, by now, experienced a certain reaction of feeling 
in regard to Arthur Lisle. Her resentment she kept for 
104 


THE HERO OF THE EVENING 


Mrs. Veltheim and her father, and their bungling. To- 
wards Arthur she remained very friendly, even affection- 
ately disposed. But a sense of failure was upon her, and 
there came with it a diffidence which made her, always 
now, doubtful of pleasing him. Her old distrust of her- 
self grew stronger; the fear of “grating” on him was 
more insistent. Thus her pleasure in his company was 
impaired, and she could no longer believe, as she used, in 
his pleasure in being with her. She thought she saw 
signs of uneasiness in him too, sometimes — and she was 
not always wrong about that. In the result, with all the 
mutual good-will in the world, there was a certain con- 
straint. Save in such moments of excitement as had 
arisen over Mr. Beverley and his farce, neither could 
forget that there lay between them one of those uncom- 
fortable things of which both parties are well aware, but 
which neither can mention. It was a consciousness which 
tended not indeed to hostility, but to separation. Ar- 
thur's new preoccupations, resulting in his visits to Re- 
gent's Park being much less frequent, intensified the feel- 
ing. Inevitably, as her dreams day by day faded, some 
of the bright hues with which they had decked Arthur 
Lisle faded from him also. He retained his own virtues 
and attractions; but gradually again it became possible 
for there to be other virtues and attractions in the world 
which were not his and which might advance rival pre- 
tensions. 

Her natural affinities with Sidney Barslow, checked and 
indeed wilfully, if reluctantly, suppressed for the last few 
weeks, would have revived in any event so soon as the 
counter-attraction lost its monopolizing power. The 
event of this evening — the dramatic and triumphant re- 
turn of the banished friend— brought them to a quick and 
8 105 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


vigorous life again. To forgive was not enough. She 
burned to welcome and applaud — though still with a wary 
uneasy eye on Arthur. Yet she was — perversely — ^glad 
that he was there, that he should see what manner of man 
had suffered dismissal for his sake. This desire to mag- 
nify in his eyes a sacrifice which had proved useless was 
a subtle reproach to Arthur — the only one she leveled 
against him. 

He had been among the first to shake the warrior by 
the hand. "‘Splendid, my dear fellow! Splendid!” he 
exclaimed, with a genuine enthusiasm. “I wish Fd been 
there too — though I should have been of jolly little use, 
I’m afraid.” His humility was genuine too ; at that mo- 
ment he would have given a great deal to be as good a 
fighting man as Sidney Barslow. 

Sidney gave his hand readily, but he looked apologetic 
amidst all his glory. “Serves us right for taking up with 
those chaps and going to the beastly place. But after 

the races sometimes, you know ” He was trying to 

convey that such associates and such resorts were not 
habitual with him. He was remembering that unhappy 
encounter in Oxford Street far more painfully than 
Arthur. 

“Why, that was all Raymond’s fault, anyhow !” Marie 
interposed indignantly. “You couldn’t desert him !” 

But Arthur did remember the encounter and with some 
shame. If there were occasions on which a man might 
not wish to know Sidney Barslow or to vouch for his 
respectability, there were evidently others on which he 
would be glad to have him by his side and to be recog- 
nized as entitled to his friendly services. Very likely the 
latter were really the more characteristic and important. 
At all events, here he was to-night, a gallant spirit, brave 
io6 


THE HERO OF THE EVENING 


and gay in battle — no small part of what goes to make a 
man. Arthur himself felt rather small when he remem- 
bered his fastidious horror. 

^'We’re all proud of you, Barslow,'’ said old Sarradet, 
in his most impressive manner. 

“We are, we are, we are!’^ cried Joe; and, regardless 
of poor Raymond’s aching head, he sat down at the piano 
and thumped out “See the Conquering Hero Comes !” 

Mr, Claud Beverley was robbed of the honors of the 
evening, but, to do him justice, he took his deposition in 
good part. In fact, as he walked home to those Northern 
Heights whence had come his wonderful inspiration, he 
found and hailed yet another Hero of the Evening. 
Neither Gifted Author nor Splendid Warrior! 

“Put in as much as that, did he ! Just made it possible ! 
I should like to do that chap a turn if I could I” 

Joe Halliday — his heart opened by emotion and cham- 
pagne — had told him the Secret of the Thousand. 


CHAPTER XI 


HOUSEHOLD POLITICS 

For the next three months — through the course of the 
London season, a fine and prosperous one — ^Arthur Lisle 
played truant. The poison of speculation was in his veins, 
the lust of pleasure in his heart ; romantic imaginings and 
posings filled his thoughts. The Temple saw little of him. 
More than once Norton Ward would have offered him 
some ^‘deviling” to do, or some case to make a note on ; 
but Henry reported that Mr, Lisle was not at chambers. 
Norton Ward shrugged his shoulders and let the thing 
drop ; the first duty of an earnest aspirant in the Temple 
is to be there — always waiting in the queue for employ- 
ment. “You can’t help a man who won’t help himself,” 
Norton Ward observed to his wife, who pursed up her 
lips and nodded significantly; she knew what she knew 
about the young man’s case. Informed of his missed 
chances by a deferentially reproachful Henry, Arthur 
was impenitent. He did not want to make notes on cases 
and to do deviling; not so much now because of his ter- 
rors (though he still felt that Pretyman, J., was formid- 
able) as because his own interests were too enthralling; 
he had no time to spare for the quarrels of John Doe and 
Richard Roe and the rest of the litigious tribe. There 
were roads to fortune shorter, less arid, and less steep. 
Also there were green pastures and flowery dells, very 
pleasant, though they led nowhere in particular, peopled 
io8 


HOUSEHOLD POLITICS 


by charming companions, enlivened by every diversion — 
and governed by a Fairy Queen. 

In London an agreeable young man who has — or be- 
haves as if he had — nothing to do will soon find things 
to do in plenty. Arthur’s days were full; lunches, din- 
ners, theaters, dances, tennis to play, cricket and polo 
matches to watch, a race meeting now and then, motor 
excursions or a day on the river — time went like lightning 
in amusing himself and other people. Everybody ac- 
cepted so readily the view that he was a man of leisure 
and wholly at their disposal that he himself almost came 
to accept it as the truth. Only in the background lay the 
obstinate fact that, in a life like this, even five hundred 
pounds will not last forever. Never mind! In the au- 
tumn there would come the farce. There was a rare 
flavor in the moment when he wrote his check for a 
thousand pounds, payable to the order of Joseph Halli- 
day, Esquire. Joe had asked for an instalment only, but 
Arthur was not going to fritter away the sensation like 
that. 

Of course Bernadette had first call on him, and she 
used her privilege freely. At her house in Hill Street he 
was really at home ; he was expected to come without an 
invitation ; he was expected to come in spite of any other 
invitation, when he was wanted. He fetched and carried, 
an abject delighted slave. She never flirted with him or 
tried to win his devotion ; but she accepted it and in re- 
turn made a pet of him. Yet she had no idea how im- 
mense, how romantic, how high-flying the devotion was. 
She was not very good at understanding great emotions — 
as Oliver Wyse might perhaps have agreed. So, if she 
had no designs, she had no caution either; she was as 
free from conscience as from malice ; or it might be that 
109 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


any conscience she had was engaged upon another matter. 
Sir Oliver had not yet returned to town, but soon he was 
coming. 

Engrossed in Bernadette herself, at first Arthur paid 
little heed to the other members of the household. In- 
deed he never became intimate with Judith Arden dur- 
ing all this time in London. He liked her, and forgave a 
satirical look which he sometimes caught directed at him- 
self in consideration of her amusing satirical remarks di- 
rected at other people; and after all she could not be 
expected to appreciate the quality of his devotion to Ber- 
nadette. But with Godfrey Lisle things gradually reached 
a different footing. The shy awkward man began to put 
out feelers for friendship. Among all who came and 
went he had few friends, and he sought to make no more. 
Even Judith, as became her age and sex, was much occu- 
pied in gaieties. He spent his days in his library and in 
walking. But now he began to ask Arthur to join him. 

“If Bernadette can spare you ” he would say; or, 

to his wife: “If you don’t want Arthur this after- 
noon ” and so suggest a walk, or a smoke, together. 

He did not succeed in conveying the impression that 
he would be greatly pleased by the acceptance of his in- 
vitations. But he did give them, and that from him was 
much. 

“Do go,” Bernadette would say, or “Do stay,” as the 
case might be. “He does like a talk so much 1” Strangely 
it appeared that this was the case, provided he could get 
his talk quietly with a single person — and, it must be 
added, though Arthur’s eyes were not yet open to this, 
provided that the person was not his wife. From private 
conversation with her he shrank, ever fearing that some- 
thing might seem to be demanded of him which he could 
no 


HOUSEHOLD POLITICS 


not give. But he read and thought much, and enjoyed an 
exchange of ideas. And he took to Arthur with the 
liking a reserved man often has for one who is expansive 
and easy of access. Arthur responded to his overtures, 
at first through a mixture of obligation and good-nature, 
then with a real interest, to which presently there was 
added a sympathy rather compassionate, a pity for a 
man who seemed by nature unable to take the pleasures 
which lay so plentiful around. 

He fretted about money too — a thing pathetic to the 
eyes with which at present Arthur looked on the world. 
But he did; he might be found surrounded by account 
books, rent-books, pass-books, puzzling over them with a 
forlorn air and a wrinkled brow. It was not long before 
he took Arthur into his confidence, in some degree at 
least, about this worry of his. 

“We spend a terrible lot of money; I can’t think where 
it all goes,” he lamented. 

“But isn’t it pretty obvious?” laughed Arthur. “You 
do things in style — and you’re always doing them.” 

“There’s this house — heavy! And Hilsey always sit- 
ting there, swallowing a lot !” Then he broke out in sud- 
den peevishness : “Of course, with anything like com- 
mon prudence ” He stopped abruptly. “I’m not 

blaming anybody,” he added lamely, after a pause. And 
then : “Do you keep within your income ?” 

“I don’t just now — by a long chalk. But yours is a 
trifle larger than mine, you know.” 

“I can’t do it I Well, I must raise some money, I sup- 
pose.” 

Arthur did not know what to say. The matter was 
intimate and delicate; for there could be no doubt who 
was responsible, if too much money were being spent. 

Ill 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“I’m sure if you — well, if you made it known how you 
. feel ” he began. 

“Yes, and be thought a miser!” His voice sank to a 
mutter just audible. “Besides all the rest !” 

So he had grievances I Arthur smiled within himself. 
All husbands, he opined, had grievances, mostly unsub- 
stantial ones. He could not believe that Godfrey was 
being forced into outrunning his means to any serious 
extent, or that he had any other grave cause for com- 
plaint. But, in truth, Godfrey’s trouble — money apart — / 
was an awkward one. He was aggrieved that he had not 
got what he did not want — his wife’s affection. And he 
was aggrieved that she did not want what he had no de- 
sire to give her — namely, his. The state of things ag- 
grieved him, yet he had no wish — at least no effective 
impulse — to alter it. He felt himself a failure in all 
ways save one — the provision of the fine things and the 
pleasures that Bernadette loved. Was he now to be a 
failure there too? He clung to the last rag of his tat- 
tered pride. 

Yet often he was, in his shy awkward way, kindly, 
gracious, and anxious to make his kinsman feel sure of a 
constant welcome. 

“Coming too often?” he said, in reply to a laughing 
apology of Arthur’s. “You can’t come too often, my dear 
boy I Besides, you’re a cousin of the house ; it’s open to 
you of right, both here and at Hilsey. Bernadette likes 
you to come too.” 

“Has she told you so ?” Arthur asked eagerly. 

“No, no, not in words ; but anybody can see she does. 
We’re too grave for her — Judith and I — and so’s Oliver 
Wyse, I think. She likes him, of course, but with him 
she can’t — er ” 


II2 


HOUSEHOLD POLITICS 


‘Tlay about?’' Arthur suggested. 

“Yes, yes, exactly — can’t do that sort of thing, as she 
does with you. He’s got too much on his shoulders ; and 
he’s an older man, of course.” He was walking up and 
down his library as he talked. He stopped in passing and 
laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder for a moment. “It’s 
good of you not to grudge me a talk either, sometimes.” 

“But I like talking to you. Why do you think I 
shouldn’t?” 

Godfrey was at the other end of the room by now, 
with his back turned, looking into a book. 

“You’ve never seen Hilsey, have you? Would it bore 
you to come down for a bit, later on ? Very quiet there, 
of course, but not so bad. Not for longer than you like, 
of course! You could cut it short if you got bored, you 
know.” 

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid of my being bored! I 
should love it of all things.” Indeed the invitation filled 
him with delight and gratitude. “It’s jolly good of you, 
Godfrey ; jolly kind, I think.” 

Godfrey murmured something like, “See how you like 
it when you get there,” sat down with his back still 
turned, and obliterated himself with a large book. 

He was certainly difficult to know, to get to close quar- 
ters with. If he approached you at one moment, he 
shrank back the next; he seemed to live in equal fear of 
advances and of rebuffs. It was difficult to know how to 
take him, what idea to form of him. Plenty of negations 
suggested themselves readily in connection with him, but 
positive qualities were much harder to assign; it was 
easier to say what he was not than what he was, what he 
did not like than what he did, what he could not do than 
what he could. At all events, what positive qualities he 

113 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


had did not help him much in his life, and were irrelevant 
to the problems it presented. By nature he was best made 
for a student, immured in books, free from the cares of 
position and property, and from the necessity of under- 
standing and working with other people. Fate had mis- 
placed him as a wealthy man, burdened with obligations, 
cumbered with responsibilities. He had misplaced him- 
self as the husband of a brilliant and pleasure-loving wife. 
He ought to have been a bachelor — the liabilities of bach- 
elors are limited — or the mate of an unpretending house- 
wife who would have seen to his dinner and sewn on his 
buttons. In an unlucky hour of impulse he had elected to 
play Prince Charming to a penniless Beauty; Prince 
Charming appearing in a shower of gold. Of all the 
charms only the gold was left now, and the supply even of 
that was not inexhaustible, though the Beauty might be- 
have as if it were. He had failed to live up to the promise 
of his first appearance, to meet the bill of exchange which 
he had accepted when he married Bernadette. He lacked 
the qualifications. Ardor of emotion, power to under- 
stand and value a nature different from his own, an in- 
telligent charity that could recognize the need in another 
for things of which he felt no need — these he had not, 
any more than he possessed the force of will and char- 
acter which might have molded the other nature to his 
own. 

He met his failure with a certain dignity of bearing 
which all his awkwardness could not efface. He did not 
carp at his wife or quarrel with her ; he treated her with 
consistent politeness and with a liberality even excessive. 
He showed no jealousy of her preferences ; that she would 
ever give him cause for serious jealousy, fears for his 
honor, had never yet entered his head ; such matters did 
I14 


HOUSEHOLD POLITICS 


not lie within the ordinary ambit of his thoughts. But the 
sense of failure had bitten deep into his heart ; his pride 
chafed under it perpetually. His life was soured. 

Arthur saw little of all this, and of what he did see he 
made light. It is always the easiest and most comfortable 
thing to assume that people are doing as they like and 
liking what they are doing. If Godfrey lived apart from 
the life of the house, doubtless it was by his own choice ; 
and, if he had a grievance, it must be just about money. 
The paymaster always has a grievance about money; he 
is Ishmael, with every man’s and every woman’s hand 
against him — stretched out for more. A legitimate occa- 
sion for a grumble — but it would be absurd to make much 
of it. 

Besides, what serious trouble could there be when Ber- 
nadette was so radiant and serene, so gay and merry with 
himself and with Judith, so gentle and friendly with her 
husband? There seemed no question of two parties in 
the house — as there sometimes are in houses — with the 
one or the other of which it was necessary for him to 
range himself. His adoration for Bernadette in no way 
clashed with his growing affection for her husband; 
rather she encouraged and applauded every sign of 
greater intimacy between the men. It was with the sense 
of a triumph in which she would surely share that he car- 
ried to her the news that Godfrey — Godfrey himself, of 
his own accord — had invited him to Hilsey. Of her cor- 
dial indorsement of the invitation he had, of course, no 
doubt. Perhaps, after all, she had inspired it. 

''Now don’t say you put him up to it ! That wouldn’t 
be half such a score,” he said, laughing. 

She seemed surprised at the news ; evidently she had 
not taken any part in the matter. She looked a little 

115 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


thoughtful, possibly even doubtful. Judith Arden, who 
was sitting by, smiled faintly. 

'‘No, I had nothing to do with it,” said Bernadette. 
"And it really is a triumph for you, Arthur.” She was 
smiling again now, but there was a little pucker on her 
brow. "When’s your best time to come ?” she asked. 

"In the early part of August, if I may. I shall have to 
run up and see mother afterwards and I’ve got to be back 
in town in the middle of September — for our production, 
you know.” 

Bernadette, by this time, had been told all about the 
great farce and the great venture which had made it pos- 
sible. 

She appeared to consider something for a moment 
longer, so that Arthur added : "Of course, if it’s not con- 
venient to have me then, if you’re full up or any- 
thing ” 

"Goodness, no ! There are twenty rooms, and there’ll 
be nobody but ourselves — and Oliver Wyse, perhaps.” 

"I thought Sir Oliver was coming earlier, directly we 
go down?” said Judith. 

"He’s coming about the seventeenth or eighteenth ; but 
he may stay on, of course. On the other hand, he may 
not come, or may come later, after all.” She smiled 
again, this time as it were to herself. Sir Oliver’s visit 
to Hilsey had been arranged before she lunched with him 
in Paris and might, therefore, be subject to reconsidera- 
tion — by the guest, or the hostess, or both. She had 
neither seen him nor heard from him since that occasion ; 
things stood between them just where they had been left 
when she turned away and went into the hat shop with 
glowing cheeks. There they remained even to her own 
mind, in a state of suspense not unpleasurable but capable 
Ii6 


HOUSEHOLD POLITICS 


of becoming difficult. It was just that possibility in them 
which made her brow pucker at the thought of Sir Oliver 
and Arthur Lisle encountering one another as fellow- 
guests at Hilsey. 

Arthur laughed. “Well, if he doesn^t mind me, I don’t 
mind him. In fact I like him very much — what I’ve seen 
of him ; it isn’t much.” 

It was not much. Before Oliver Wyse went to Paris, 
they had met at Hill Street only three or four times, and 
then at large dinner parties where they had been thrown 
very little in contact. 

“Oh, of course, you’ll get on all right together!” said 
Bernadette. 

“You’ve a lot in Dmmon with him really, I believe,” 
Judith remarked. 

Bernadette’s lips twisted in a smile, and she gave Ju- 
dith a glance of merry reproof. They were both amused 
to see how entirely the point of the observation was lost 
on Arthur. 

“I daresay we shall find we have, when we come to 
know each other better,” he agreed, in innocent sincerity. 

Bernadette was stirred to one of the impulses of affec- 
tionate tenderness which the absolute honesty and sim- 
plicity of his devotion now and then roused in her. His 
faith in her was as absolute as his adoration was un- 
bounded. For him she was as far above frailty as she was 
beyond rivalry or competition. Without realizing the 
immensity of either the faith or the adoration, she yet 
felt that, if temptation should come, it might help her to 
have somebody by her who believed in her thoroughly, 
and, as it were, set her a standard to live up to. And 
she was unwillingly conscious that a great temptation 
might come — or perhaps it were better to say that she 
117 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


might be subjected to a severe pressure; for it was in 
this light rather that the danger presented itself to her 
mind when she was driven to think about it. 

She looked at him now with no shadow on her face, 
with all her usual radiant friendliness 

‘'At any rate I shall be delighted to have you there, 
Cousin Arthur,” she said. She had managed, somehow, 
from the first to make the formal “Cousin” into just the 
opposite of a formality — to turn it into a term of affec- 
tion and appropriation. She used it now not habitually, 
but when she wanted to tell him that she was liking him 
very much, and he quite understood that it had that 
significance. He flushed in pleasure and gratitude. 

“That’s enough for me. Never mind Sir Oliver!” he 
exclaimed, with a joyful laugh. 

“If it isn’t an anti-climax, may I observe that I too 
shall be very glad to see you?’^ said Judith Arden, with 
affected primness. 

Arthur went away in triumph, surer still of Berna- 
dette’s perfection, making lighter still of Godfrey’s griev- 
ances, dismissing Oliver Wyse as totally unimportant, 
blind to all the somewhat complicated politics of the 
house. They rolled off his joyous spirit like water oif a 
duck’s back. 


CHAPTER XII 


LUNCH AT THE LANCASTER 

On a day in July, when this wonderful London season 
was drawing near an end, and the five hundred pounds 
had reached about halfway towards exhaustion, Arthur 
Lisle gave himself and his friends a treat. He invited 
the Syndicate — as they laughingly styled themselves — 
to lunch at the Lancaster Hotel. There were some dis- 
appointing refusals. Mr. Sarradet would not come; he 
was sulky in these days, for Raymond was neglecting his 
father’s perfumery and spending his father’s money, the 
integrity of the dowry was threatened, and old Sarradet 
had a very cold fit about the prospects of the theatrical 
speculation. Sidney Barslow — he was invited, thanks to 
his heroic reentry — pleaded work. The author himself 
wrote that he would be unavoidably detained at “the 
office” — 'Mr. Beverley was never more definite than that 
about the occupation which filled the daytime for him. 
But Marie and Amabel came, escorted by Joe Halliday, 
and they made a merry party of four. The girls were 
excited at being asked to the Lancaster. Such sumptu- 
ous places, though not perhaps beyond the Sarradet 
means, wore quite foreign to the thrifty Sarradet habits. 
Amabel was of the suburbs, and patronized “popular- 
price” restaurants on her visits to town. Joe lived in 
grill rooms. The balcony of the Lancaster seemed mag- 
nificent, and Emile, the mattre d'hotel, knew Arthur quite 
I19 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAH 


well, called him by his name, and told him what brand of 
champagne he liked — marks of intimacy which could not 
fail to make an impression on Arthur’s guests, and which 
Emile had a tactful way of bestowing even on quite occa- 
sional patrons. 

Joe Halliday made his report. Everything was in trim, 
and going on swimmingly. The theater was taken, a pro- 
ducer engaged, the girl who was Joe’s own discovery se- 
cured and, besides her, a famous comic actor who could 
carry anything — anything — on his back. Rehearsals were 
to begin in a month. 

“By this time next year lunch at the Lancaster will be 
an everyday event. Just now it can’t be. So — I’ll trouble 
you for a little more fizz, Arthur I” said Joe, with his 
great jolly laugh. 

“Don’t count your chickens 1” said cautious Marie. 

“A coward’s proverb!” cried Arthur gaily. “Why, 
you lose half the fun if you don’t I” 

“Even if we do fail, we shall have had our fun,” Joe 
remarked philosophically. 

The others could hardly follow him to these serene 
heights. Amabel had persuaded gold out of her “gov- 
ernor,” Marie felt decidedly responsible to old Sarradet, 
and the pledge that Arthur had given to fortune was very 
heavy. 

“If it becomes necessary, we’ll try to feel like that,” 
said Arthur ; “but I hope we shan’t have to try.” 

“Of course we shan’t,” Amabel insisted eagerly. “How 
can it fail? Of course it mayn’t be quite such an enor- 
mous success as Help Me ” 

“It’ll knock Help Me Out Quickly into a cocked hat,” 
Joe pronounced decisively. “Just see if it don’t!” He 
turned to Marie. “Then what sort of a smile shall we 


120 


LUNCH AT THE LANCASTER 


see on old Sidney’s face?” He could not quite forgive 
Sidney Barslow (hero as he was!) for having refused 
to “come in.” 

“Sidney’s a wise man about business, and — and money. 
Wiser than we are, perhaps!” Marie smiled as she ate 
her ice. 

“Sidney’s developing all the virtues at a great pace,”^ 
laughed Amabel. “Under somebody’s influence !” 

Joe laughed too ; so did Marie, but she also blushed a 
little. Arthur was suddenly conscious of a joke which 
was new to him — something which the other three under- 
stood but he did not. He looked at Joe in involuntary 
questioning. Joe wmked. He saw Marie blush ; it caused 
him a vague displeasure. 

“Yes,” Joe nodded. “He is. Works like a horse and 
goes to bed at eleven o’clock ! I shouldn’t be surprised if 
he turned up one fine day with a blue ribbon in his coat !” 

“Oh, don’t be so silly, Joe!” laughed Marie; but the 
laugh sounded a little vexed, and the blush was not quite 
gone yet. 

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Arthur. 

“Joking apart, he has put the brake on. Jolly good 
thing too ! He’s such a good chap — really.” 

Arthur was not ungenerous, but he could not help feel- 
ing that the apotheosis of Sidney Barslow might be car- 
ried too far. The vision of the scene in Oxford Street 
was still vivid in his mind ; it would need a lot of hero- 
ism, a lot of reformation, altogether to obliterate that,, 
however much he might agree to a gentler judgment 
of it. 

“No, don’t make a joke of it, Joe ; anyhow not to Sid- 
ney himself,” said Marie, looking a little embarrassed 
still, but speaking with her usual courage. “Because it’s. 

9 I2I 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


for our sake — well, mostly so, I think — that he’s — he’s 
doing what he is. I told him that in the beginning he had 
led Raymond into mischief, and that he ought to set him a 
better example now. And he’s trying — without much 
success. I’m afraid, as far as Raymond is concerned.” 
Her voice grew very troubled. 

“I’m awfully sorry, Marie !” Arthur murmured. 

“Oh, I’ve no intention of rotting Sidney about it! If 
only because he’d probably hit me in the eye!” said Joe. 

“Yes, we know his fighting powers,” laughed Amabel, 
in admiring reminiscence. Her tone changed to one of 
regretful exasperation : “Raymond is a goose !” 

“But we mustn’t spoil Mr. Lisle’s party with our trou- 
bles,” said Marie, smiling again. 

“Oh, come, I say. I’m not altogether an outsider!” 
Arthur protested, with a sudden touch of vehemence. 

“Oh, no, not that !” Marie murmured, with a little shake 
of her head; her tone did not sound very convinced. 
Amabel giggled feebly. Joe covered a seeming embar- 
rassment by gulping down his coffee and pretending to 
find it too hot. A constraint fell upon the party. Arthur 
wanted to make himself thoroughly one with them in anx- 
iety and concern over Raymond’s misdeeds — nay, even in 
admiration for Sidney Barslow’s reformation ; he wanted 
to, if he could. Yet somehow he found no words in 
which to convey his desire. Every phrase that came into 
his head he rejected; they all sounded cold and unreal, 
somehow aloof and even patronizing. Silence, however 
awkward, was better than speeches like that. 

It was one of Joe Halliday’s chosen missions in life, 
and one of his greatest gifts, to relieve occasions of re- 
straint and embarrassment by a dexterous use of humor. 
This social operation he now, perceiving it necessary, pro- 
122 


LUNCH AT THE LANCASTER 


ceeded to perform. Clapping his hand to his forehead in 
a melodramatic manner, he exclaimed, in low but intense 
tones : “Ask me who I want to be ! Who I want to be in 
all the world ! Ask me quickly 

He won his smiles. “What’s the matter now, Joe?” 
asked Arthur ; his smile was tolerant. 

“No, I’ll tell you! Don’t speak!” He pointed with 
his finger, past Arthur, towards the other end of the 
room. “There he sits ! A murrain on him ! That’s the 
man! And how dare he lunch with that Entrancing 
Creature ?” 

“Which one, Joe? Which one?” asked Amabel, im- 
mediately full of interest. 

“There — behind Arthur’s back. He can’t see her — 
good thing too ! He doesn’t deserve to.” 

“I suppose I can turn round, if I want to — and if she’s 
worth it. Is she, Marie?” 

“Is it the one in blue, Joe? Yes, she is. Awfully 
pretty !” 

“Never saw such a corker in my life!” Joe averred, 
with solemnity. 

“Then round — in a careless manner — goes my head!” 
said Arthur. 

“He WOOS her, I swear he woos her, curses on his 
mother’s grave !” Joe rode his jokes rather hard. 

“We’d better not all stare at her, had we?” asked 
Marie. 

“She’s not looking ; she’s listening to the man,” Amabel 
assured her. 

Arthur turned round again — after a long look. He 
gave a little laugh. “It’s my cousin, Bernadette Lisle. 
Joe, you are an ass !” 

It was Bernadette Lisle; she sat at a little table with 
123 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Oliver Wyse. They had finished eating. Bernadette was 
putting on her gloves. Her eyes were fixed on Oliver’s 
face, her lips were parted. The scene of the Cafe de 
Paris reproduced itself — and perhaps the topic. She 
had not seen Arthur when he came in, nor he her. She 
did not see him now. She listened to Sir Oliver. 

“Your cousin! That! Introduce me — there may yet 
be time !” said the indomitable Joe. 

“Oh, shut up!” groaned Arthur, half flattered, how- 
ever, though half peevish. 

“She’s very beautiful.” Marie’s eyes could not leave 
Bernadette. “And so — so — well, she looks like some- 
thing very, very precious in china.” 

Arthur looked round again; he could not help it. 
“Yes, that is rather it, Marie.” 

“Look — look at her hat, Marie!” came from Amabel, 
in awed accents. Indeed the visit to the hat shop in 
Paris had not been without its fruit. 

“Now is it fair — is it reasonable — for a fellow to have 
a cousin like that? He might have a Queen like that, 
or a Dream like that, and I shouldn’t care. But a cousin ! 
He knows the Vision ! He’s talked to it ! Heavens, he’s 
probably lunched with it himself! And he kept it all 
dark from us — Oh, so dark!” 

“Is it Mr. Lisle with her?” asked Amabel, quite inno- 
cently. 

Arthur smiled. “No, I don’t think you’d find Godfrey 
lunching here. That’s a man named Wyse. I’ve met 
him at their house.” 

“He’s good-looking, too,” Amabel decided, after a fur- 
ther survey. 

A waiter brought Oliver Wyse his bill. When he 
turned to pay it, Bernadette rose. The spell which had 
124 


LUNCH AT THE LANCASTER 


held her attention so closely was broken. She looked 
round the room. Suddenly a bright smile came on her 
lips, she spoke a hurried word to her companion, and 
walked straight across the room towards Arthur’s table. 
She had recognized the back of his head. 

''She’s coming here!” whispered Amabel breathlessly. 

Arthur turned round quickly, a bright gleam in his 
eyes. He rose from his chair; the next moment she was 
beside him, looking so joyful, so altogether happy. 

"Oh, Arthur dear, I am glad!” She did not offer to 
shake hands ; she laid her little hand on his coat sleeve as 
she greeted him. "Did you see me — with Sir Oliver?” 
But she did not wait for an answer. "Do let me sit 
down with you for a minute. And mayn’t I know your 
friends ?” A waiter hurried up with a chair, and Berna- 
dette sat down by Arthur. "Why, what fun this is ! 
Cousin Arthur, I must have another ice.” The gloves 
began to come off again, while Arthur made the neces- 
sary introductions. 

"Oh, but I know you all quite well !” exclaimed Berna- 
dette. "You’re old friends of mine, though you may not 
know it.” 

Oliver Wyse, his bill paid, followed her with a leisurely 
step. He greeted Arthur cordially, and included the rest 
of the table in a bow. "I gather you intend to stay a 
bit,” he said to Bernadette, smiling. "I’ve got an ap- 
pointment, so if you’ll excuse me ?” 

"Oh, yes, Arthur will look after me !” She gave him 
her hand. "Thanks for your lunch. Sir Oliver.” 

"It was so good of you to come,” he answered, with 
exactly the right amount of courteous gratitude. 

As he went off, she watched him for just a moment, 
then turned joyously back to her new companions. A 

125 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


casual observer might well have concluded that she was 
glad to be rid of Oliver Wyse. 

Joe was — to use his own subsequent expression — 
‘‘corpsed”; he had not a joke to make! Perhaps that 
was as well. But he devoured her with his eyes, mani- 
festing an open admiration which simple sincerity robbed 
of offense. Bernadette saw it, and laughed at it with- 
out ^ disguise. Amabel’s eyes were even more for frock 
and hat than for the wearer; this it was to be not merely 
clothed but dressed! Marie had paid her homage to 
beauty; she was watching and wondering now. Arthur 
tasted a new delight in showing off his wonderful cousin 
to his old friends, a new pride in the gracious kindness of 
her bearing towards them. And Bernadette herself was 
as charming as she could be for Arthur’s sake, and in 
gratitude at his appearance — for the casual observer 
would have been quite right as to her present feeling 
about Oliver Wyse. 

Marie Sarradet revised her notions. She forgave her 
father his meddling; even against Mrs. Veltheim she 
pressed the indictment less harshly. Here surely was 
the paramount cause of her defeat! Mrs. Lisle and 
what Mrs. Lisle stood for against herself and what she 
represented — candid-minded Marie could not for a mo- 
ment doubt the issue. Her little, firmly repressed griev- 
ance against Arthur faded away ; she must have a griev- 
ance against fate, if against anything. For it was fate or 
chance which had brought Mrs. Lisle on to the scene 
just when the issue bung in the balance. Yet with her 
quick woman’s intuition, quickened again by her jealous 
interest, she saw clearly in ten minutes, in a quarter of 
an hour — while Bernadette chattered about the farce 
(valuable, anyhow, as a topic in common!) and wistfully 
126 


LUNCH AT THE LANCASTER 


breathed the hope that she would be able to come up 
from the country for the first night — that the brilliant 
beautiful cousin had for Arthur Lisle no more than a 
simple honest affection flavored pleasantly by his adora- 
tion, piquantly by amusement at him. He was her friend 
— and her plaything, her protege, and her pet. There 
was not even a fancy for him, sentimental or romantic; 
at the idea of a passion she would laugh. See how easy 
and unconstrained she was, how open in her little fa- 
miliar gestures of affection! This woman had nothing 
here to conceal, nothing to struggle against. It was well, 
no doubt. But it made Marie Sarradet angry, both for 
herself and for Arthur’s sake. To take so lightly what 
had so nearly been another’s — to think so lightly of all 
that she had taken I 

The intuition, quick as it was, had its limits ; maybe it 
worked better on women than on men, or perhaps Marie’s 
mind was somewhat matter-of-fact and apt to abide with- 
in obvious alternatives — such as “He’s in love, or he’s 
not — and there’s an end of it !” Arthur loved his cousin’s 
wife, without doubt. But so far, at least, it was an adora- 
tion, not a passion; an ardor, not a pursuit. He asked 
no more than he received — leave to see her, to be with 
her, to enjoy her presence, and in so doing to be welcome 
and pleasant to her. Above all — as a dim and distant 
aspiration, to which circumstances hitherto had shown no 
favor — to serve her, help her, be her champion. This 
exalted sentiment, these rarefied emotions, escaped the 
analysis of Marie’s intuition. What she saw was an 
Arthur who squandered all the jewels of his heart and 
got nothing for them; whereas, in truth, up to now he 
was content ; he was paid his price, and counted himself 
beyond measure a gainer by the bargain. 

127 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Who was the other man — the man of quiet demeanor 
and resolute face, who had so held her attention, who had 
so tactfully resigned the pleasure of her company ? 
Marie’s mind, quick again to the obvious, fastened on 
this question. 

Bernadette, under friendly pressure, rose from a hope 
to an intention. “I will come to the first night,” she de- 
clared. “I will if I possibly can.” 

‘'Now is that a promise, Mrs. Lisle?” asked Joe 
eagerly. After all, the farce was his discovery, in a 
special sense his property. He had the best right to a 
paternal pride in it. 

“It’s a promise, with a condition,” said Arthur, laugh- 
ing. “She will — if she can. Now I don’t think promises 
like that are worth much. Do you, Marie ?” 

“It’s the most prudent sort of promise to give.” 

“Yes, but it never contents a man,” Bernadette com- 
plained. “Men are so exacting and so — so tempestuous.” 
She broke into a little laugh, rather fretful. 

“Now am I tempestuous?” Arthur asked, with a pro- 
testing gesture of his hands. 

“Oh, you’re not all the world, Arthur,” she told him, 
just a little scornfully, but with a consoling pat on the 
arm. “You know what I mean. Miss Sarradet? They 
want things so definite — all in black and white ! And if 
they can’t have them like that, they tell you you’re a 
shillyshallying sort of person without a mind and, as I 
say, get tempestuous about it.” 

Joe had regained some of his self-confidence. “If any- 
body bothers you like that, just you send him to me, Mrs. 
Lisle. I’ll settle him!” His manner conveyed a jocose 
ferocity. 

“I wish you would! I mean, I wonder if you could. 

128 


LUNCH AT THE LANCASTER 


They talk as if one’s mind only existed to be made up — 
like a prescription. One’s mind isn’t a medicine! It’s 
a — a What is it, Arthur ?” 

“It’s a faculty given us for the agreeable contempla- 
tion and appreciation of the world.” 

“Quite right!” declared Bernadette, in emphatic ap- 
proval. “That’s exactly what I think.” 

“It would clearly promote your agreeable appreciation 
of the world to come to our first night, Mrs. Lisle,” 
urged Joe. 

“Of course it would ” 

“So you’ll come ?” 

“Yes, I’ll come — if I possibly can,” said Bernadette. 

They all began to laugh. Bernadette joined in. “Back 
to where we began — just like a woman!” exclaimed Ar- 
thur. 

“There — that’s just what I mean. Miss Sarradet. He’s 
begun to bully !” 

“Well, I must. Because why shouldn’t you be able to 
come, you see?” 

She looked at him, pursing up her smiling lips. “Cir- 
cumstances, Cousin Arthur !” And she pushed back her 
chair from the table. 

“Oh, rot ! And, I say, don’t go, Bernadette !” 

“But I must. I’m awfully sorry to. You’re all so 
nice !” 

“And if you possibly can, Mrs. Lisle? D. V.? That 
kind of thing, you know ?” 

“Unless circumstances absolutely prevent!” she play- 
fully promised for th^ last time, as she turned away, 
Arthur following to put her in her carriage. 

Joe Halliday drew a long breath. “Well now, girls, 
how’s that for high ?” 


129 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


‘"Why, her hat alone must have^ ” Amabel began, 

with every appearance of meaning to expatiate. 

'^1 wonder what she’s really like !” said Marie thought- 
fully. 

She’s really like an angel — down to the last feather !” 
Joe declared, with an emphasis which overbore contra- 
diction. 


CHAPTER XIII 


SETTLED 

Le chateau qui parle et la femme qui ecoute — Berna- 
dette Lisle had begun to be conscious of the truth con- 
tained in the proverb, and to recognize where she had 
made her great mistake. Though Oliver Wyse had told 
her that he was in love with her, she had allowed him 
to go on coming to the house as usual ; and she had not 
even explicitly barred the dangerous topic. Little use if 
she had ! To keep him on the other side of the hall door 
was really the only way. But, though startled and fright- 
ened, she had not been affronted; though rejecting his 
suit, she had been curious and excited about it. It was a 
complication indeed; but it cut across a home life which 
had not complications of that kind enough, in which 
nobody catered for her emotions ; she had to look some- 
where outside for that. A lover makes a woman very 
interesting to herself. He casts a new light on familiar 
things ; he turns disagreeables into tragedies, routine into 
slavery, placid affection into neglect. He converts whims 
into aspirations, freaks into instincts, selfishness into the 
realization of self. All this with no willing hypocrisy, 
not at all meaning to tell her lies. He is simply making 
her see herself as he sees her, to behold with him her 
transfiguration. 

Oliver Wyse was lucky in that he had more truth on 
his side than many a lover can boast. Her life was 

131 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


starved of great things ; she was in a sense wasted ; her 
youth and beauty, things that pass, were passing with no 
worthy scope; where the sweetest intimacy should be, 
there was none ; her marriage was a misfit. It could not 
be denied that she had contrived, in spite of these un- 
promising facts, to be fairly happy. But that was before 
her eyes were open, he hinted, before she had looked on 
the transfiguration, before she knew her true self. She 
supposed that must be so, though with an obstinate feel- 
ing that she might manage to be fairly happy again, if 
only he and his transfiguration would go away — or if she 
might just look at it, and wonder, and admire, without 
being committed to the drastic steps which lovers expect 
of the transfigurations they have made. Is it absolutely 
necessary to throw your cap over the mill just because 
somebody at last really understands and appreciates you ? 
That was a question Bernadette often asked herself — 
quite fretfully. The action was threatened by so many 
penalties, spiritual and worldly. 

She had her shrewdness also, increased by the experi- 
ence of a beauty who has seen many aspire in golden 
ardor, sigh in piteous failure, and presently ride away on 
another chase with remarkably cheerful countenances. 
If this after failure, what after success ? Men were tem- 
pestuous in wooing; what were they when the fight was 
won? She knew about her husband, of course, but she 
meant real men — so her thoughts perilously put a con- 
trast. 

“Have you often been in love. Sir Christopher?” she 
asked the old judge one day, as he sat in her little den, 
sipping tea and smoking cigarettes. 

He was a lifelong bachelor. “Often, Bernadette.” 

“Now, tell me,” she said, leaning towards him with a 
132 


SETTLED 


knitted brow and a mighty serious look. “Of all the 
women you’ve been in love with, is there anyone you now 
wish you’d married?” 

“Yes, certainly. Two.” 

“Out of how many ?” 

“I don’t know. A matter of double figures, I’m 
afraid.” Smiling, he put an apologetic note into his 
voice, “They’re not the two I was most desperate about, 
Bernadette.” 

“Of course I should very much like to know who they 
were.” 

“But since, of course, that’s impossible, let us continue 
the discussion in the abstract.” 

“Why didn’t you marry them — well, one of them, I 
mean, anyhow?” 

“Is that the abstract? Well, one of them refused.” 

“To marry you?” 

“She refused, Bernadette. Now please go back to the 
abstract !” 

“Without asking about the other?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

“All right. I don’t think I care so much about desper- 
ation myself, you know.” 

“Seen too much of it probably!” His old blue eyes 
twinkled. 

“I could have fallen awfully in love with you. Judge. 
Do you often think about those two?” 

“Oftener about the others.” 

“That’s very perverse of you.” 

“The whole thing’s infernally perverse,” said the 
Judge. 

“However, I suppose you’ve pretty well forgotten 
about the whole thing now ?” 

133 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


'The deuce you do !” 

"Did you soon get to be glad you hadn’t married them 
— the other twenty or so?” 

"That varied. Besides, if I had married them, I might 
have become quite content.” 

"They’d have got to look older, of course,” Bernadette 
reflected. "But people ought to be content with — well, 
with being content, oughtn’t they ?” 

"Well, you see, you’re generally young when you’re in 
love — comparatively, at all events. You get content with 
being content — as you neatly put it — rather later.” 

'That means you’re not in love any more?” 

"Life has its stages, Bernadette.” 

She gave a quick little shiver. "Horrid !” 

"And children come, bringing all sorts of ties. That 
must make a difference.” The old man sighed lightly, 
clasping together his thin hands with their gleaming 
rings. 

"Oh, a tremendous difference, of course 1” Bernadette 
made orthodox reply. 

In effect just what she had said to Oliver Wyse him- 
self when she lunched with him at the Lancaster ! 
"Among other things, you forget Margaret,” she had 
said, reinforcing her resistance with every plea which 
came to her hand. "I don’t forget her, but I think first 
of all of you,” had been his reply. It was no doubt true 
that he thought of her before the child; whether he 
thought of her first of all was much more open to ques- 
tion. "She depends on me so much,” she had urged, 
sounding even to herself rather conventional. Did little 
Margaret really depend on her so much — that demure 
prim child, self-centered, busy in a world of her own 
with her fancies and her toys? She was shy and re- 
134 


SETTLED 


served, she neither gave nor seemed to expect demon- 
strations of affection. She was her father's daughter 
and promised to grow up like him in mind, as she already 
showed a physical likeness. The natural bond existed 
between mother and child, and was felt. It was not 
strengthened by any congeniality of disposition, nor by 
the tender appeal of frailty or sickness— despite that doc- 
tor's advice, Margaret was robust and healthy. They 
did not see much of one another really, not even at Hil- 
sey. There was so much to do. Bernadette was not a 
habit in her child’s life and doings ; she was an interlude, 
and probably not seldom an interruption. Still, there 
they were — mother and child. And the child would grow 
up, understand, and remember. No woman could make 
light of all that; if Oliver thought she could, he did her 
gross injustice. No ; he who loved her would not do her 
wrong. Then he must understand that duty to the child 
was a great thing with her. And yet he said there ought 
to be a greater ! 

At the back of her mind, unacknowledged, was a 
thought which offered a sop to conscience. She would 
not be leaving Margaret to strangers. Besides the father, 
there would be Judith. The little girl was very fond of 
Judith, and Judith of her. They seemed to understand 
one another; Margaret's tranquil demureness fitted in 
with Judith's dry humor and unemotional ways. The 
natural thing — under certain circumstances — would be 
for Judith to take over the charge of her uncle's house. 
'‘Just as if I were to die, you know," thought Berna- 
dette. 

Besides, all this assumed that she would go away. Of 
course Oliver wanted that, but — ^well, lots of women 
didn’t. Nice women, too, some of them, and good 

135 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


mothers. She could think of two or three at least among 
her own acquaintance, and recognized now, with a sort 
of surprise and relief, that she had never thought very 
particularly the worse of them for their peccadillo ; she 
had never shunned their society. Who did — although 
everybody knew the facts ? It was odd what a difference 
there was between the official view (so to speak) and 
the way people actually behaved about the matter ; Oliver 
had been quite right on that point — and even rather 
amusing. 

She was seeing Oliver Wyse almost daily now, and 
their meeting was the event of the day to her — antici- 
pated, waited for, feared. Everything else stood in rela- 
tion to it — as a means or a hindrance, as a dull contrast 
or a merciful relief. He found her eager and excited, 
he left her often weary and fretful ; but by the next day 
she was eager again. * She was like a man who drinks 
himself into a headache and sadly grows sober, only to 
drink once more. 

The eve of the household’s departure to the country 
had come. They were to go on the morrow ; as matters 
were arranged, Oliver Wyse would join them two days 
later. After another ten days, Arthur was due at Hilsey 
for his visit, and two or three friends besides for a week- 
end. So stood the program — externally. But one point 
in it still hung in doubt, even externally : Sir Oliver had 
a competing engagement — some important business on the 
Continent; should he give up the business and come to 
Hilsey ? Or the other way ? He put the question to her 
when he came to take leave of her — whether for three 
days or for how much longer? 

The time had passed when he could say, 'Tt will wait.” 
That had been right when he said it; to hurry matters 
136 


SETTLED 


then would have been to fail But she had been brought 
to a point when a decision could be risked. Risked it 
must be, not only because his feelings ardently demanded 
an end to his suit, but lest he should become ridiculous in 
his own eyes. Dangling and philandering were not to his 
taste. He had got a dangerous notion into his head — 
that she would keep him hanging on and off to the end 
of the chapter. He had often seen men cheated like 
that, and had laughed at them. His passion was strong in 
him now, but his masculine pride was equal to fighting it. 
He had himself on the curb. He could and would leave 
her unless he could stay on his own terms. To tell her 
that might involve cruelty to her ; he did not stand on the 
scruple. There were scruples enough and to spare, if a 
man began to reckon them, in an affair of this kind. 
They were in the nature of the case. What animal can 
live and thrive that does not add cunning to courage, 
trickery to daring? He liked neither being cruel to her 
nor tricking those about her; but for the moment these 
things had to be done. There should be an end of them 
soon; he promised himself that and found comfort in 
the promise. 

But she fought him with a pertinacity that surprised 
him; he had not in his heart expected so stout a resist- 
ance. 

“It’s not in the least for me to decide whether you 
come to Hilsey or not,” she told him roundly. “It’s en- 
tirely for you. I ask you to pay me a visit. Come or 
not, as you like. Sir Oliver.” 

“But what does it mean if I do come?” 

“I don’t know. I’m not a prophet.” 

He put on no melodramatic airs. His manner was 
quiet and friendly still. “You’re a very provoking 
10 137 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


woman.” He smiled. ''I hate to be abrupt — well, I 
don’t think I have been — but this thing’s got to be set- 
tled.” 

‘‘Has it? Who says so? What is there to settle?” 

“You’re being tempestuous now.” He threw her own 
word back at her, with a laugh. “And you know quite 
well what there is to settle,” He looked at her stormy 
little face with love and tender amusement. But his an- 
swer he meant to have, 

“Settle, settle, settle! How many thousand times have 
you used that word ? I think I hate you. Sir Oliver.” 

“I begin to think myself that you don’t love me. So 
I’d best be off on my business.” 

“Yes, I really think you had. And when you come 
back, perhaps we can consider-^ ” 

“Oh, dear me, no, we can’t !” 

She looked at him for an instant. Again he made her 
eyes dim. He hated himself at the moment, but it seemed 
to him that there was nothing to do but stick to his 
course. Else, whatever he felt now, he would feel to- 
morrow that she had fooled him. She sat looking very 
forlorn, her handkerchief clenched in her hand ready to 
wipe away the tears. He went and leant over her. 

“Dearest, forgive me! You must think how I feel. 
Can’t you love and trust me ?” 

She thrust her hand confidingly into his. “I think I 
wish you’d just be friends, Oliver.” 

An impulse of remorse struck him. “I think I wish I 
could,” he said ruefully. 

“Then why not?” 

“Oh, you don’t understand — and I think you can’t 
love me.” 

“Yes, I do. I’m sure I do.” 

138 


SETTLED 


He bent down and kissed her. She was thinking, and 
let the caress pass as though unnoticed. 

don’t think I could manage life now without you.” 

'‘Well, doesn’t that mean ? Come, it just needs a 

little courage.” 

“Oh, don’t talk as if I were going to the dentist’s!” 
But she gave the hand she held an affectionate squeeze; 
her anger had passed. “I suppose I’ve got to do it,” she 
went on. “I suppose I have. It’s rather an awful thing, 
but I’m — I’m in a corner. Because I do love you — and, 
yes, I’m a coward. It’s such an awful plunge, and there’s 
— Oh, everything against it! Except just you, of course. 
Oliver, I don’t think I can come away.” 

He said nothing; he gently pressed her hand in en- 
couragement. 

She looked up at him and whispered: “Must I come 
away — now, directly?” 

“Soon, at all events.” 

“I must go down to Hilscy to — ^to see Margaret, you 
know, and ” 

“Well, go. Make an excuse to come up from there, 
and I’ll meet you.” 

“As if I should dare to do it without you to help me ! 
You must come to Hilsey too, Oliver, and we — we’ll 
start from there.” 

It was a fluttering faltering consent, but a consent it 
was; though still deferred, it was definite. It agreed 
not only to give him what he wanted, but to give it in 
the way he liked — openly, before the world. The short 
delay — to be spent largely in her company — weighed 
lightly against all this. He caught her in his arms in 
gratitude and passion, pouring out endearing words, be- 
yond himself in exultation because “it was settled.” 

139 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Now at last she, too, was moved to the depths of her 
nature. She sat clinging to him, with his strong arms 
about her, very quiet, smiling, yet drawing her breath in 
long low pants, her dim eyes very tender and never leav- 
ing his. So she heard his half-whispered protestations 
and encouragement, smiling at them, just now and then 
murmuring a faint “Yes !” Her fears were silenced, her 
scruples scattered to the winds while she sat thus. 

It was strange when that same evening (on which, she 
thanked heaven, she had no engagement) she sat — quite 
otherwise — at the head of her table with her husband 
opposite, Judith Arden and Arthur Lisle on either side — 
a little family party, a little domestic structure, so to say, 
of which she was the keystone, and which she was about 
to shatter. Yet it seemed so firm, so habitual, the manner 
of its life so inveterate ! Even Arthur, the latest comer, 
was like a native part of it now. Its permanence had 
looked so assured a few short weeks ago, when Oliver’s 
infatuation was a thing to smile over in amused secrecy. 
But it was not permanent. She was going, by an arbi- 
trary exercise of power, to end it. Nay, she was going 
to end herself, the self she had been all these last years — 
Godfrey’s wife, Margaret’s mother, Mrs. Lisle of Hilsey 
and of Hill Street, W. This woman, with all her various 
functions and relations, was going to disappear, like a bit 
of fluff blown into the air. Enter — ^through a somewhat 
stormy passage — a new woman, utterly different and con- 
ditioned absolutely otherwise, a person of whom Mrs. 
Lisle really knew very little, though she reached out to 
the comprehension of her and to the vision of her life 
with an ache of curiosity. 

The other three — that all unconscious trio — were in 
good spirits. Even Godfrey was cheerful at the prospect 
140 


SETTLED 


of escaping from London, and talked quite gaily. Judith 
was looking forward to seeing Margaret and to the coun- 
try pursuits she loved; her talk was of riding, fishing, 
and tennis. Arthur was gleeful; the short separation 
seemed but to flavor the prospect of long and blissful 
days at Hilsey. Bernadette herself was the most silent 
of the party, a thing quite contrary to her wont. She sat 
there with a queer attractive sense of power — in kind per- 
haps like what they say has sometimes tempted men to 
secret murder — as though she dispensed fate to her com- 
panions and disposed of their lives, though they knew 
nothing of it. About them, even as about the new woman 
who was to come into being, her dominant feeling was 
not compunction but curiosity. How would they take it? 
Imagine them at dinner at Hilsey — say this day three 
weeks or this day month ! Three, not four, at table, and 
Mrs. Lisle of Hilsey not merely not there, but for all 
purposes important for them, non-existent! An exulta- 
tion mingled now with her eager curiosity. She mar- 
veled that she had courage to wave the mystic wand 
which was to destroy the structure. She looked on the 
three with an ironical pity. 

“Well, you all sound as if you were going to enjoy 
yourselves,'' she said, at last breaking her silence. “Have 
you made any plans for me?" 

“You always like the garden, don't you, Bernadette?" 
Godfrey's tone was propitiatory. 

“Oh, you must play tennis this year — and there’ll be 
the new car!" said Judith. 

“Among other things, you're going to play golf with 
me. You promised! The links are only about eight 
miles oflF. We can motor over and make a jolly long 
day of it." Arthur’s sentence would have gained signifi- 

141 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


cance by the addition of one more word — ‘"together.” 

“I see you’ve settled it all among you,” she said. “But 
aren’t you forgetting our guest? While you and I are 
doing all this, what’s to become of Sir Oliver?” 

Arthur looked round the table with brows raised and a 
gaily impudent smile. He felt pretty safe of the sym- 
pathy of two of his audience; he was confident that the 
third would pardon his presumption because of the hint 
that lay beneath it — the hint that anything which inter- 
fered with long days together would be unwelcome. 

“For my part, I can’t think what you want with your 
old Sir Oliver at all,” he said. 

His speech came as a cap to the situation, a savoury 
titbit for her ironical humor. She looked at him for a 
moment with eyes that sparkled maliciously; then she 
broke into low long laughter. She seemed unable to 
stop or control it She sat and laughed at all of them — 
and most of all at Cousin Arthur. He — they — it — all too 
absurd ! 

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she gasped at last, for their faces 
began to grow astonished. “But it strikes me as very 
funny. If he could hear you ! Because he thinks a good 
deal of himself, you know — my old Sir Oliver I” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE BATTLE WITH MR TIDDES 

The next day there occurred to Arthur Lisle — ^whose 
mind was a thousand miles away from such things — a 
most unexpected event. The news of it came by tele- 
phone from Henry, who ventured to bespeak Mr. Lisle’s 
immediate attention ; he was not quite sure that he would 
get it, so reprehensibly neglectful had Mr. Lisle’s pro- 
fessional conduct been of late. A brief had ar- 
rived, not somebody else’s to be “held,” but actually 
for Arthur himself — a brief in the Westminster County 
Court. The case would come on for trial in two days’ 
time. 

His first impulse was to send ^e brief back, to fly from 
it; not so much now because it frightened him as because 
it clashed with the whole present temper of his mind^ 
But full as he was of fancies and vanities, he had some- 
where a residuum of sober sense. Did he really mean to 
turn his back on work, to abandon his profession? Not 
merely to neglect preparation and opportunities, as he 
had been doing, but to refuse work actually there ? That 
was a different thing — a decision too momentous. If he 
refused this brief, he would scarcely dare to show him- 
self at his chambers, to face Henry again. He braced 
himself up, and in a mixture of apprehension, annoyance, 
and surprise, took his way to the Temple — instead of 
going down to Wimbledon to watch lawn tennis. 

143 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Henry welcomed the Prodigal, quite forgetful appar- 
ently of that unfortunate episode of the Law Reports. 
‘^It’s from Wills and Mayne,” he said. ‘'Mr. Mayne 
brought it himself, and said a clerk would be at the court 
on Friday to look after you.” 

“But who are they? Do you know them, Henry?” 

“No, sir; I never heard of them. They’re not clients 
of Mr. Norton Ward’s. But Mr. Mayne seemed to know 
about you. A shortish gentleman, gray, and rather bald 
— one of his eyelids sort o’ trembles, something like as if 
he was winking.” 

“Hum I” He did not identify the stranger. “How the 
deuce did they ever hear of me?” Because although 
Arthur might have been cutting a figure in society, and 
certainly was a person to whom notable things of a ro- 
mantic order had been happening, he was, as a member 
of the Bar, very young and monstrously insignificant. 
“Well, it beats me !” he confessed, as he untied the tape 
which fastened Tiddes v. The Universal Omnibus Com- 
pany, Ltd. 

Mr. Tiddes, it appeared (for of course Arthur dashed 
at the brief and read it without a moment’s delay), had 
a grievance against the Universal Omnibus Company, 
Ltd., in that they had restarted their ’bus while he was 
still in process of alighting, thereby causing him to fall in 
the roadway, to sprain his thumb, bark his knee, and tear 
his trousers, in respect of which wrongs and lesions he 
claimed forty pounds in damages. The omnibus com- 
pany said — well, according to their solicitors, Messrs. 
Wills and Mayne, they did not seem to have very much 
to say. They observed that their clients were much 
exposed to actions of this sort and made it their policy 
to defend them whenever possible. The incident, or acci- 
144 


THE BATTLE WITH MR. TIDDES 


dent, occurred late on Saturday night; Mr. Tiddes had 
been in company with a lady (whom he left in the ’bus), 
and had struck the conductor as being very animated in 
his demeanor. Counsel would make such use of these 
facts as his discretion dictated. In short, a knowledge of 
our national habits made falling off a ’bus late on Satur- 
day night in itself a suspicious circumstance. Add the 
lady, and you added suspicion also. Add an animated de- 
meanor, and the line of cross-examination was clearly 
indicated to counsel for the defendants. 

Not a clerk, but Mr. Mayne himself, met Arthur at the 
court ; he was recognizable at once by the tremor of his 
eyelid — like a tiny wink, a recurring decimal of a wink. 
He was, it seemed, rather pessimistic; he said it was a 
class of case that the company must fight — ^^Better lose 
than not defend” — and Mr. Lisle must do his best. Of 
course the jury — and plaintiff had naturally elected to 
have a jury — would find against the company if they 
could; however, Mr. Lisle must do his best. Arthur slid 
he would. He longed to ask Mr. Mayne how the deuce 
the firm had ever heard of him, but judiciously refrained 
from thus emphasizing his own obscurity. Also he 
strove not to look frightened. 

He was frightened, but not so frightened as he would 
have been in the High Court. Things were more homely, 
less august. There was no row of counsel, idle and 
critical. His Honor had not the terrors of Pretyman, J., 
and counsel for the plaintiff was also young at the job, 
though not so raw as Arthur. But the really lucky thing 
was that Mr. Tiddes himself made Arthur furiously 
angry. He was a young man, underbred but most insuf- 
ferably conceited; he gave his evidence-in-chief in a 
jaunty facetious way, evidently wishing to be considered 

145 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


a great buck and very much of a ladies’ man. With this 
air he told how he had spent the Saturday half-holiday — 
he was in the drapery line — at a cricket match, had met 
the young lady — Miss Silcock her name was — ^by ap~ 
pointment at a tea shop, had gone with her to a ‘‘Cinema,”' 
had entertained her to a modest supper, and in her com- 
pany mounted the ’bus. It was at her own request that 
he got out, leaving her to go home unattended. His 
manner conveyed that Miss Silcock’s had been a stolen 
spree. Then came his story of the accident, his physical 
sufferings, his doctor’s bill, and his tailor’s account ; final- 
ly the hard-hearted and uncompromising attitude of the 
Company was duly exhibited. 

Arthur rose to cross-examine — the moment of a thou- 
sand dreams and fears. 

“Now, Mr. Tiddes ” he began. 

your service, sir,” interposed Mr. Tiddes, in 
jaunty and jocular defiance. 

“I want to follow you through this very pleasant even- 
ing which you seem to have had. I’m sure we’re all very 
sorry that it ended badly.” 

“Very unselfish of you to look at it like that, Mr* 
Lisle,” said his Honor. (Laughter in court.) 

Follow Mr. Tiddes he did through every incident of 
the evening, with a curiosity especially directed towards 
the refreshments of which Mr. Tiddes had partaken. 
With subtle cunning he suggested that, in such company 
as he had been privileged to enjoy, Mr. Tiddes would be 
lavish — his hand would know no stint. As a matter of 
fact, Mr. Tiddes appeared to have done things well. The 
“tea shop” sold other commodities, such as a glass of 
port. Next door to the “Cinema” was a saloon buffet, 
and Mr. Tiddes admitted a visit. At supper they nat- 
146 


THE BATTLE WITH MR. TIDDES 


urally took something — in fact, bottled ale for Miss Sil- 
cock, and whisky-and-soda for Mr. Tiddes. 

'"One whisky-and-soda ?’" asked counsel for the de- 
fense. 

‘Wes, one,” said Mr. Tiddes. “At least, I think so. 
Well — I believe I did have a split, besides.” 

“Split whisky or split soda?” (Laughter in court.) 

His Honor lolled back in his chair, smiling. Evidently 
he thought somebody a fool, but Arthur could not be sure 
whether it was himself or Mr. Tiddes. But he did not 
much care. He had warmed to his work, he had for- 
gotten his fears. He could not bear that Mr. Tiddes 
should defeat him ; it had become a battle between them. 
Once or twice Mr. Tiddes had winced, as over that 
^‘split” — an arrow in the joints of his harness! He was 
less jaunty, less facetious. 

At last they got to the accident. Here Mr. Tiddes was 
very firm. He made no concessions; he walked (so he 
maintained) from his place in a perfectly quiet, sober, 
and businesslike manner, and in like manner was about to 
descend from the 'bus when — on it moved and he was 
jerked violently off! If the conductor said anything to 
the contrary — well, the conductor was not looking at the 
critical moment ; he was collecting somebody’s fare. 

“You didn’t even look back at the young lady over your 
shoulder ?” 

“I did not, sir.” Mr. Tiddes too was, by now, rather 
angry. 

“Didn’t kiss your hand, or anything of that sort?” 

“Nothing of the kind, sir.” 

“In fact, you were attending entirely to what you 
were doing?” 

“I was.” 


147 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Don’t you think, then, that it’s rather odd that you 
should have been jerked off?” 

“The ’bus moved suddenly, and that jerked me off.” 

“But you were holding on, weren’t you?” 

“Yes, I was holding on, all right.” 

So they went on wrangling, till his Honor ended it by 
remarking: “Well, we’ve got his story, I think, Mr. 
Lisle. You will have your opportunity of commenting 
on it, of course.” Upon which Arthur sat down 
promptly. 

But he was dissatisfied. It was no more than a drawn 
battle with Mr. Tiddes. If Mr. Tiddes’ refreshments 
had been shown to border on excess, there was nothing 
to show that they had affected the clearness of his mind 
or the stability of his legs. 

That was what Arthur was fishing for — and pure fish- 
ing it was, for the conductor had in fact had his back 
turned at the critical moment when Mr. Tiddes left the. 
’bus — somehow. Also, he was between Mr. Tiddes and 
the only other passenger (Miss Silcock herself excepted). 
He had reached backward to give the signal to start — 
assuming that Mr. Tiddes was already safely off. Negli- 
gent, perhaps — but why was Mr. Tiddes not safely off 
by then? That question stuck in Arthur’s mind; but 
he had got no answer to it out of Mr. Tiddes. The 
plaintiff insisted that no human being could have got off 
in the time allowed by that negligent conductor. 

Miss Silcock confirmed her friend’s story, but in rather 
a sulky way. It was not pleasant to have the stolen spree 
dragged to light ; she had “had words” with her mother, 
to whom she had originally represented the companion of 
her evening as belonging to the gentler sex; she was 
secretly of opinion that a true gentleman would have 
148 


THE BATTLE WITH MR. TIDDES 


forgone his action in such circumstances. Arthur had 
hopes of Miss Silcock, and treated her very gently — no 
suggestion whatever that her conduct was other than 
perfectly ladylike! Miss Silcock was quite in a good 
humor with him when they got to the moment when Mr. 
Tiddes bade her good night. 

‘‘You were at the far end of the ^bus. He said good 
night, and walked past the conductor?” 

“Yes.” 

“When did the ’bus stop?” 

“When he was about halfway to the door.” 

“What did he do?” 

“Walked to the door.” 

“Had the ’bus started again by then?” 

“No.” 

“You could see him all the time? Where was he when 
the ’bus started again ?” 

“On the platform outside the door.” 

“Was he holding on to anything?” 

Miss Silcock looked a little flustered. “I don’t remem- 
ber.” 

“Oh, but try. Miss Silcock,” said his Honor sooth- 
ingly, but sitting up straight in his chair again. 

“Well, no, I don’t think he was. He’d turned round.” 

“Oh, he had turned round !” said Arthur, with a quite 
artistic glance at the jury. 

“Well, he just turned and smiled at me — sort o’ smiled 
good night.” 

“Of course! Very natural he should!” 

“But he didn’t seem to remember having done it,” ob- 
served his Honor. 

“Did he do anything besides smile at you?” asked 
Arthur. 


149 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“No, I ” She smiled and hesitated a momenta 

“Think again, Miss Silcock. You’d had a very pleas- 
ant evening together, you know.” 

Miss Silcock blushed a little, but was by no means dis- 
pleased. “Well, he did cut a sort of caper — silly-like,’^ 
she admitted. 

“Oh, did he ? Could you show us what it was like ?” 

“I couldn’t show you,” answered Miss Silcock, with a 
slight giggle and a little more blush. “He lifted up one 
leg and kind of wiggled it in the air, and ” 

“Just then the ’bus went on again, is that it?” 

“Well, just about then, yes.” Miss Silcock had caught 
a look — such a look! — from her friend, and suddenly 
became reluctant. 

“W-hile he was on one leg ?” 

Miss Silcock, turned frightened and remorseful, was 
silent. 

“Answer the question, please,” said his Honor. 

“Well, I suppose so. Yes.” 

“Thank you. Miss Silcock. No more questions.” 

Reexamination could not mend matters. The evi- 
dence for the defense came to very little. Counsel’s 
speeches called for no record, and his Honor did little 
more than observe that, where Mr. Tiddes and Miss Sil- 
cock differed, the jury might see some reason to think that 
Miss Silcock’s memory of the occurrence was likely to 
be the clearer and more trustworthy of the two. The 
jury thought so. 

“We find that the conductor started the ’bus too soon, 
but that the plaintiff oughtn’t to have been behaving like 
he was,” said the foreman. 

“That he wouldn’t have tumbled off but for that, do 
you mean?” asked his Honor. 

150 


THE BATTLE WITH MR. TIDDES 


After a moment’s consultation, the foreman answered 
"Wes.” 

‘T submit that’s a verdict of contributory negligence, 
your Honor,” said Arthur, jumping up. 

‘T don’t think you can resist that, Mr. Cawley, can 
you?” his Honor asked of counsel for the plaintiff. 
"‘Judgment for the defendants with costs.” 

Poor Mr. Tiddes ! He was purple and furious. It is 
sadly doubtful if he ever again gave Miss Silcock a 
pleasant evening out. 

The case was won. Mr. Cawley was disconsolate. 
"‘Fancy the girl letting me down like that!” he said, in 
mournful contemplation of the untoward triumph of 
truth. Mr. Mayne, winking more quickly than usual, 
was mildly congratulatory. “The result will be very 
satisfactory to the Company. Just the sort of thing 
which shows their policy of fighting is right! Good 
afternoon, Mr. Lisle, and thank you.” And here was 
Henry, all over smiles, waiting to applaud him and to 
carry home his blue bag. Arthur had a suspicion that, if 
he had lost, Henry would have disappeared and left him 
to carry the bag back to the Temple himself. 

He was exultant, but he was not satisfied. As he 
strolled back to his chambers, smoking cigarettes, a voice 
kept saying in his ear : “You ought to have got it out of 
Tiddes! You ought to have got it out of Tiddes!” 
Ought he? Could he? Had Tiddes been lying, or was 
his memory really misty? Arthur did not know, even 
now, though he favored the former alternative. But 
oughtn’t he to know? Oughtn’t he to have turned Mr. 
Tiddes inside out? He had not done it. Tiddes would 
have beaten him, but for Miss Silcock. True, he had 
persevered with Miss Silcock because his mind had gone 

151 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


to the mysterious point in the case — why Mr. Tiddes 
was just ten seconds or so too long in getting off the 
’bus. But could he— or couldn’t he — have been expected 
to think of that capering silly-like ? 

Between exultation and dissatisfaction his mind was 
tingling. He fought the fight over and over again; he 
was absolutely engrossed in it. He was back in the 
Temple before he knew it almost — sitting in his chair by 
the fire, with a pipe, trying to see what he could have 
asked, how he could have broken down Mr. Tiddes’ evi- 
dence. A pure triumph might have left him pleased but 
careless. This defeat in victory sharpened his feelings 
to a keen interest and curiosity. What were the secrets 
of the art of wresting the truth from ufiwilling witnesses ? 
The great art of cross-examination — what were its mys- 
teries ? 

At any rate, it was a wonderful art and a wonderful 
thing. Very different from the dreary reading of Law 
Reports ! There was a fascination in the pitting of your 
brain against another man’s — in wringing the truth (well, 
if what you wanted to get happened to be the truth) from 
his reluctant grasp. It was Battle — ^that’s what it was. 

‘'By Jove!” he cried within himself — indeed he could 
not tell whether he uttered the words out loud or not. 
"There’s something in this beastly old business, after all, 
if only I can stick to it !” 

Oblivious for the moment of everything else, even of 
Hilsey, even of his adoration, he vowed that he would. 

All this was the doing of quiet old Mr. Mayne with 
his winking eyelid. Why had he done it? That, too, 
Arthur now forgot to ask. He remembered nothing 
save the battle with Mr. Tiddes. He had tasted blood. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE MAN FOR A CRISIS 

Serious trouble threatened the Sarradet household also 
— not of the sort which impended over the Lisles, but 
one not less common. There was increasing strife be- 
tween father and son. Raymond’s taste for pleasure 
showed no sign of being sated ; he took no warning from 
the scrape out of which Sidney Bar slow’s strong arm 
had rescued him; he spared neither time nor money in 
seeking the delights to which his youth and his tempera- 
ment inclined him. Old Mr. Sarradet was ageing; he 
grew more grumpy and crusty, fonder of his hoards, less 
patient when he saw money wasted, more fearful of 
leaving the family business at the mercy of a spend- 
thrift. He grumbled and scolded ; he made scenes. Ray- 
mond met them with sullen hostility, or took to avoiding 
them by absenting himself from the house. If home 
were made uncomfortable, there were plenty of other 
places to go to ! The more his father would bridle him, 
the more he kicked. 

Marie tried to hold them together, to patch up quar- 
rels, to arrange truces, to persuade each of them to meet 
the other halfway. Her task was the more difficult since 
she herself was held as a threat over her brother’s head. 
She should have the hoards, she should have the busi- 
ness, unless Raymond would mend his ways! The old 
man’s menace turned her brother’s anger against her; 

11 153 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


almost openly he accused her of bad faith and hypocrisy 
— of aiming at stepping into his shoes. The charge was 
cruel, for she loved him. But he made a stranger and at 
last nearly an enemy of her. Once she had hoped to 
work on him through Amabel Osling, but Amabel, slight- 
ed in favor of more recent and more gaudy attractions, 
stood now on her dignity and would make no approaches 
to Raymond. She came to the house still, and was as 
friendly as ever to father and daughter, but distant to- 
wards the son on the rare occasions when she found him 
there. Joe Halliday was no use in serious straits like 
these ; he took everything as it came, for others as well as 
for himself ; his serenely confident, ‘*Oh, he’s a young 
fool, of course, but it’ll come all right, you’ll see!” did 
not seem to Marie to meet the situation. And Arthur 
Lisle? Her old feeling forbade the idea of troubling 
Mr. Lisle with such matters ; they would certainly grate 
on him. Besides, he was — somehow — a little bit of a 
stranger now. 

It was Sidney Barslow’s opportunity ; he was well fitted 
to use the chance that circumstances gave him. The 
strong will which enabled him to put a curb on his own 
inclinations, so soon as he had an adequate motive, made 
him a man to turn to in distress. His past indulgences, 
in so far as they were known or conjectured, themselves 
gave him authority. He spoke of what he knew, of 
what he had experienced and overcome. Seeing him, the 
old father could not deny that young men might pass 
through a season of folly, and yet be sound at heart and 
able to steady themselves after a little while. Raymond 
could not call him a Puritan or an ignoramus, nor accuse 
him of not understanding the temptations which beset his 
own path. 


154 


THE MAN FOR A CRISIS 


Sidney was honest in his efforts. He felt a genuine re- 
morse for having set young Raymond’s feet on the prim- 
rose path along which they now raced at such dangerous 
speed. About his own little excursions along the same 
track he felt no such pangs of conscience; fellows were 
different ; some could pull up when they liked ; he could. 
It seemed that Raymond could not; therefore he re- 
pented of having started Raymond at all, and recognized 
a duty laid on himself of stopping him if possible. And 
the same motives which had enabled him to forsake the 
dangerous path urged him to turn Raymond also from 
it. Marie’s approval had been his mark in the one case ; 
in the other it was her gratitude ; in both her favor. The 
pleasure he derived from seeing her trust him and lean 
on him was something quite new in his life and appealed 
strongly to his courageous and masculine temper. He 
would not fail her, any more than he had failed her 
brother in his need. 

And his reward ? He knew very well what he wanted 
— if only he could get it. He did not deal in doubts and 
hesitations. He had not sacrificed his indulgences with- 
out being quite sure of what he wanted in exchange. His 
mind, if primitive and unrefined, was direct and bold. 
His emotions were of the same simple and powerful type. 
Courting a girl was to him no matter of dreaming, ro- 
mancing, idealizing, fearing, palpitating. It was just a 
man seeking the mate that pleased him. 

Marie was in no mood to be courted yet; her dream 
was too recently dispelled, and her steady nature could 
not leap to sudden change. But her eyes were on his 
strong qualities again; she looked at him less through 
Arthur Lisle’s spectacles; that side of her which liked 
him could now assert itself. She turned to his aid 

155 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


readily, and, with her shrewd calculation seconding the 
impulse of friendship, made his company seem as 
welcome for its own sake as for the services it prom- 
ised. 

“You always bring a breath of comfort with you, 
Sidney,” she told him gratefully. 

Sidney was honest with her. “It’s not much good. He 
won’t listen to me any more.” He shook his head in 
puzzle. “I can’t think where he gets the money! You 
tell me the old man has cut off supplies, but I know he 
races, and I know he plays baccarat — and you may be 
sure he doesn’t win on a balance. Besides he — well, he 
must get through a good bit in other ways. He must be 
raising the wind somehow. But it can’t last.” 

It could not. One day old Sarradet came home from 
business almost collapsed. Men had come to his shop — • 
his cherished city shop, hoary with the respectability of 
a hundred and fifty years, parading the “Royal War- 
rant” of a third successive Sovereign — asking where his 
son was, brandishing writs truculently, presuming that 
Mr. Sarradet would “set the matter right.” One more 
vicious than the rest, a jeweler, talked of false pre- 
tenses and illegal pawning — not of a writ or a settle- 
ment, but of a summons or a warrant. He had been 
very savage, and the old man, ashamed and terrified, had 
pushed him into his own private room and there heard 
his ultimatum — the ring and the bangle or their value in 
twenty-four hours, or an application to a magistrate. 
And where was Raymond? He had not been home the 
night before. He was not at the West-End shop. The 
poor old fellow babbled lamentations and threats — he 
would not pay, he had done with the scoundrel, here was 
a pretty end to an honorable life! When Marie knelt 


THE MAN FOR A CRISIS 


by him and put her arms about him, he fairly burst into 
tears. 

The world of reckless living and dishonest shifts — 
both father and daughter were strangers to it. At her 
wits’ end, Marie telephoned for Sidney Barslow. By the 
time he came, she had got the old man to go to bed, 
weeping for his son, for himself, for his money, utterly 
aghast at doings so mad and disastrous. A pitiful sight ! 
She met Sidney with tears in her eyes, full of the dismal 
story. '‘What are we to do?” she wailed, quite bereft 
of her usual composure and courage. The thing was 
too difficult, too dreadful. 

“The first thing is to find him,” said Sidney, in his 
quick decisive way. He looked at his watch. “It’s a 
bit too early now; in a couple of hours’ time I may be 
able to lay my hands on him.” 

“Can you really? How? Oh, I was sure you’d be 
able to help !” 

“Well, you see, Marie, I — er — know the ropes. I 
think I can find him — or somebody who’ll put me on his 
track.” 

“Yes, that’s where you’re such a help.” How she was 
pardoning those past indulgences ! In her heart she was 
thanking heaven for them, almost admiring them 1 
Wrong as they were, they taught a man things which 
made him ever so useful to women in distress about 
prodigal sons and brothers. “And what will you do when 
you do find him?” 

“Frighten him pretty well to death, if I can,” Sidney 
answered grimly. “I fancy our friend the jeweler may 
turn out a blessing in disguise. The news of criminal 
proceedings will be a bit of a soberer. The young ass !” 
Because it was so easy to enjoy yourself without being 

157 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


involved in criminal proceedings! ‘‘But, I say, you 
know,” he went on, “the governor’ll have to pay up.” 

“You must persuade him. I don’t believe I can, Sid- 
ney.” 

“Oh, you can do that, right enough. After all, I don’t 
suppose it’ll break him exactly. I daresay, though, the 
young ’un has run into a tidy lot. Still we can square 
’em, I expect. Don’t look so awfully cut up, Marie.” 

“I was just off my head till you came.” She held out 
both her hands for him to grasp. “Thank you, thank 
you, thank you, Sidney!” 

“That’s all right, Marie. And, look here, if I find 
him, I shan’t bring him here. I expect he and the old 
man get on one another’s nerves. There’s a room at my 
place. I’ll take him there. You put some things in a 
bag for him, and I’ll take it.” 

“Will you? It would be better they shouldn’t meet — 
with father as he is.” 

“And you may be sure that when I’ve got him I 
won’t let him go. And we’ll see about the money to- 
morrow.” 

She was infinitely comforted, immensely grateful. If 
he had sown wild oats, what wisdom he had gleaned from 
the crop! A meeting between father and son just now 
might be the end of all things, finally fatal ! She packed 
the bag and gave it to her trusted emissary. “What 
should we have done without you!” was her cry again. 

“Just leave it to me,” he told her, his strong thick lips 
set resolutely. 

With the knowledge acquired in folly but tamed now 
to the service of wisdom, morality, and the interest of the 
Sarradet business, he found young Raymond without 
much difficulty — and found him just in time. More than 

158 


THE MAN FOR A CRISIS 


money was giving out, more than strict attention to 
financial ethics was in jeopardy. The little excitable 
fellow was pretty well at the end of his tether physically 
also. His nerves were at breaking strain. Pleasure had 
become a narcotic against thought; if that alone would 
not serve, drink was called in as an ally. On the verge 
of a collapse, he was desperately postponing it by the 
surest way to make it in the end complete. 

Sidney, robust of body and mind, beheld him with 
mingled pity and contempt. He himself could have lived 
the life for years with faculties and powers unimpaired, 
really not the worse for it, save in his pocket and his 
morals; only prudential considerations and newly awak- 
ened hopes had, on a cool calculation, turned him from 
it. But Raymond, if he did not land in jail first, would 
land in hospital speedily. Amid the jeers and sneers of 
the hardier denizens of those regions, Sidney carried 
him to his own flat and put him to bed like a naughty 
worn-out child. 

In the morning came the lecture. '‘No end of a jaw- 
ing! I pitched it in hot and strong, I can tell you,’" 
Sidney subsequently reported to Marie. Poor Raymond 
lay in bed with a racking headache and trembling hands, 
and heard his sins rehearsed and (worse still) his feeble- 
ness exhibited. 

“You’re not the chap for this kind of thing,” Sidney 
told him. “Chuck it, my boy I Seek milder delights. Oh, 
I know it’s a bit my fault in the beginning. But I 
thought you’d a head on your shoulders and some sense 
in it. I’m not against a bust now and then ; but this sort 

of rot ! And what’s this fool’s business about a 

ring and a bangle ? You’re in a pretty tight place there, 
young fellow.” 


159 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Almost amid sobs the story of these unfortunate arti- 
cles of jewelry — bought on credit and pawned, by and 
with the advice and consent of the donee, a few days 
later— -came out. Sidney brandished the terrors of the 
law; the figure of the justly irate tradesman took on 
terrifying proportions. If only that dread apparition, 
with its suggestion of policemen, of locked doors and 
bolts shot home, of Black Maria and picking oakum — ^if 
only that apparition could be exorcised, there was noth- 
ing Raymond would not do, promise, and abjure. Sidney 
jeered while he threatened and grinned while he preached, 
but he did both to good purpose, with all the convincing 
knowledge and experience of a reformed criminal at a 
revivalist meeting, with all the zeal of a doctor whose 
reputation is staked upon a cure. 

Then the thoroughgoing long-headed man went off 
to his own employers and arranged to begin his approach- 
ing summer holiday immediately. That done, he tackled 
the writ-bearers and the fearful apparition with the aid 
of a sharp lawyer of his acquaintance. With threats 
of giving as much trouble as possible in one hand, and 
promises of a composition in ‘^spot cash” in the other, 
the lawyer and he succeeded in reducing the claims to 
manageable proportions ; the pawnbroker, himself a little 
uneasy under the lawyer's searching questions, accepted a 
compromise. Things could be arranged — at a price. 

But the pain of that price to old Sarradet’s thrifty 
soul! To have to subtract from his hoards instead of 
adding to them, to sell stock instead of buying, to count 
himself so much the poorer instead of so much the richer 
— the old merchant hated it. It was Marie’s task to 
wring the money out of him. And even when he had 
been brought to the point of ransoming his son, he 
i6o 


THE MAN FOR A CRISIS 


ceased not to bewail the prospects of his beloved business. 

“I won’t leave it to him, I won’t,’’ he declared queru- 
lously. “I’ll leave it to you, Marie.” 

“Oh, but I couldn’t possibly manage the business. 
Pops,” she protested, half in dismay, half laughing at 
the idea. 

“Then you must get a husband who can.” 

“Never mind my husband just now. There are more 
pressing things than that.” 

An idea struck the old fellow. “I’ll make it into a 
company. I’ll clip Master Raymond’s wings for him!” 
He pondered over this way of salvation, and, in light 
of its possibilities, gradually grew a little calmer. 

At last the wrench was over, the money paid. It was 
judged to be safe for father and son to meet. Sidney 
brought the rescued sinner to Regent’s Park. Compunc- 
tion seized them at the sight of one another ; the boy was 
so pale, shaken, and contrite; the old man was thinner, 
aged and feeble. The old tenderness between them re- 
vived ; each tried to console the other. Quite resolved to 
protect his business, Mr. Sarradet consented to forgive 
his son. Humbled to his soul, Raymond asked no more 
than to be received back into favor on any terms. Marie 
and Sidney stood by, helping, favoring, and exchanging 
glances of self-congratulation. 

“I’m oif for my holiday to-morrow, Mr. Sarradet,” 
Sidney announced. 

The old man looked up in sudden alarm. It was as 
if the anchor announced to the ship that it proposed to 
take a holiday. 

“No, no, that’s all right! I’m going for a walking 
tour in Wales, and Raymond’s coming with me. Twenty 
miles a day, open air all day ! Three weeks of that, and 
i6i 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


he’ll be as right as rain, and ready to tackle his work 
like a Hercules 

This clever fellow had a plan to meet every emergency ! 
Surely he would have a plan to save the beloved business 
too? Mr. Sarradet determined to consult him about it 
when he came back from Wales. Meanwhile he grew 
much more cheerful, and even went so far as to indulge 
in some hints of a giddy youth of his own — hints based 
(in cold truth be it said) on a very slender foundation 
but showing a desire to make excuses for his son. 

“Yes, and your bit of fun didn’t do you any harm, Mr. 
Sarradet, did it?” asked Sidney. 

No more had his bit — though quite a large bit — done 
Sidney harm. There was reason then to hope that even 
Raymond’s formidable bit might not in the end do Ray- 
mond any harm. He might turn out as good a man of 
business as his father yet. Still no risks should be run. 
The old gentleman hugged the idea of his company — 
and he had someone in his eye for Managing Director. 

So with skill and courage, with good heart and kindli- 
ness, with ambition and cunning, Sidney Barslow bound 
the Sarradet family to his chariot wheels. He was the 
friend-in-need, the rescuer, the saviour. He was like to 
become the sheet-anchor, the arbiter, the referee. Be- 
tween father and son — ^her weak old man and her weaker 
young one — Marie could not carry the whole load her- 
self. She was strong and self-reliant, but she was not 
strong enough for that. She too would take the strong 
man’s orders, though she might take them with a smile, 
when what had been, and what might have been, came to 
her remembrance. 

He gave her an order now, when they said good night. 

“Look here, when I bring him back from Wales, you 
162 


THE MAN FOR A CRISIS 


mustn’t let him mope or be bored. If I were you. I’d get 
Amabel to come and stay here a bit.” 

^‘Really you think of everything,” she told him in a 
merry wonder. “I’ll ask her, of course.” 

“I think of a good many things,” he said, venturing a 
bold glance in her eyes. 

“Don’t think of too many at a time, Sidney,” she 
warned him with a smile. 

“No, no, each in its proper place! One done, t’other 
come on, you know !” 

He stood looking down on her with a jovial confident 
smile — and she liked it. His bold glance of admiration 
did not displease or alarm her. She was quite ready to 
be told what the glance said; she was not ready to 
say anything in reply yet. But it was evident that some 
day she would be asked for a reply. 

And it seemed evident too in what direction the current 
of her life was setting. With a smile for this and a sigh 
for that, and a wrinkle of the brow over this and that, 
she went back to the drawing-room and gave old Sarra- 
det his gin-and-water. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A SHADOW ON THE HOUSE 

*‘So here you are — at Hilsey at last !” said Bernadette. 

"‘Yes, and, I say, what a jolly old place it is!” He 
paused for a moment. “I very nearly didn’t come at all, 
though.” 

She looked at him in amused surprise. “What was the 
counter-attraction ?” 

“I had a job. Consequently it became wildly possible 
that I might get another.” 

“Oh, is that all ? I hoped it was something interesting 
and romantic.” 

“It is interesting — though I suppose it’s not romantic.” 
In fact it had possessed for him some of the qualities 
implied by that hard-worked word. “But my clerk can 
wire me if anything turns up.” He laughed at himself. 
“Nothing will, you know, but it flatters my pride to think 
it might.” 

“It won’t flatter my pride if you run away from us 
again.” She rose. “Get your hat and I’ll show you 
round a bit. The others are all out, doing something.” 

“Who’s here?” 

“Only the Norton Wards and Sir Christopher. Sir 
Oliver’s been here, but he had to go up on some business. 
He’s coming back in a few days. The others are here 
just for the week-end.” 

“But I’m here for a month ! Isn’t that glorious ?” 

164 


A SHADOW ON THE HOUSE 


'‘Well, you know, something may happen ” 

“Oh, no, I shan’t be sent for. I’m sure I shan’t. Any- 
how I could come back, couldn’t I?” 

“Yes, if you wanted to. The house would always be 
at your disposal. Cousin Arthur.” Her smile was mock- 
ing, but she laid her hand on his arm with the old sug- 
gestion of a caress, adding, “Let’s get out and enjoy it, 
while we can, anyhow.” 

Bernadette looked a little pale and seemed rather tired 
— “run down after the season,” she had explained to 
Esther Norton Ward when that lady commented on her 
appearance — but Arthur was too joyfully excited by 
meeting her again and by his first view of Hilsey to 
notice fine shades. It was true that he had suffered a 
momentary hesitation about coming-^a passing spasm of 
conscience or ambition induced by the great case of 
Tiddes v. The Universal Omnibus Company, Ltd., but 
that was all over with the sight of Bernadette and of his 
stock’s ancestral home. To see her there was to see the 
jewel in its proper setting, or (to adopt Joe Halliday’s 
hyperbole) the angel in her own paradise. As they 
stepped out on the lawn in front of the old house, he 
exclaimed, “It’s beautiful, and it fits you just perfectly! 
You were made for one another!” 

She pursed up her lips for a minute, and then laughed. 
“Drink it in!” she said, jeering at his enthusiasm, and 
perhaps at something else ; the idea of an innate harmony 
between herself and her husband’s house seemed, to say 
the least, far-fetched. 

Whatever might be the case as to its mistress, Hilsey 
deserved his praises. An old manor house, not very 
large, but perfect in design and unimpaired by time or 
change, it stood surrounded by broad lawns, bordered on 

165 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


the south side (towards which the principal rooms faced) 
by a quick-running river. The pride of the gardens lay 
in the roses and the cedar trees ; among all the wealth of 
beauty these first caught the eye. Within the house, 
the old oak was rich in carving; the arms of the Lisles 
and of their brides, escutcheons and mottoes, linked past 
and present in an unbroken continuity. Grave gentle- 
men, and beauties, prim or provocative, looked down 
from the panels. As he saw the staid and time-laden per- 
fection, the enshrined history, the form and presentment 
of his ancestors, a novel feeling came to birth in Arthur 
Lisle, a sense of family, of his own inalienable share in 
all this though he owned none of it, of its claim on him. 
Henceforth, wherever he dwelt, he would know this, in 
some way, for his true home. He confessed to his feel- 
ings laughingly; ''Now I understand what it is to be a 
Lisle of Hilsey!” 

"Imperishable glory!” But she was rather touched. 
"I know. I think I felt it too when Godfrey brought 
me here first. It is — awfully charming.” 

"I don’t care for show-places as a rule. They expect 
too much of you. But this doesn’t. It’s just — well, ap- 
pealing and insinuating, isn’t it?” 

"It’s very genteel.” 

"Oh yes, it’s unquestionably very genteel too!” he 
laughed. 

The incomparable home and the incomparable cousin 
— his mind wedded them at once. 

"It was a stroke of genius that made Godfrey choose 
you to — to reign here!” 

Her smile was the least trifle wry now. What imp 
of perversity made the boy say all the things which 
were not, at this moment, very appropriate? 

i66 


A SHADOW ON THE HOUSE 


“Reigns are short — and rhapsodies seem likely to be 
rather long, Arthur. I think I’ll go and write a letter, 
and leave you to simmer down a bit.” 

“Oh, I’m an ass, I know, but ” 

“Yes, and not only about the house!” She turned to 
leave him, with a wave of her hand. “You’ll get over 
all of it some day.” 

He watched her slender white-f rocked figure as she 
walked across the lawn and into the porch. From there 
she looked back, waving her hand again; he pictured, 
though he could not at the distance see, the affec- 
tionate mocking little smile with which she was wont 
to meet his accesses of extravagant admiration, disclaim- 
ing what she accepted, ridiculing what she let him see 
was welcome. His memory took an enduring por- 
trait of her standing there in the doorway of her 
home. 

His heart was gay as he wandered about, “drinking it 
in,” as Bernadette had bidden him. The sojourn before 
him seemed an etej-nity full of delight. The future 
beyond that month was indeed charged with interest ; was 
there not the great farce, was there not now the strange 
fact of Messrs. Wills and Mayne, with whose aid imagi- 
nation could play almost any trick it pleased? Still 
these things admitted of postponement. Arthur post- 
poned them thoroughly, to fling himself into the flood 
of present happiness. 

His roving steps soon brought him to the banks of the 
stream ; he had been promised fishing there and was eager 
to make an inspection. But he was to make an acquaint- 
ance instead. On a bench by the water a little girl sat 
all by herself, nursing a doll without a head, and looking 
across the river with solemn steady eyes. Directly 
167 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Arthur saw her face he knew her for Margaret, sole 
daughter of the house. 

Hearing his step, the child turned towards him with a 
rather apprehensive look, and hastily hid the headless 
doll behind her back. She reminded him of her father 
so strongly that he smiled; there was the same shy em- 
barrassment ; the profile too was a whimsical miniature of 
Godfrey’s, and her hair was the color of his — it hung 
very straight, without curls, without life or riot in it. 

''You’re Margaret, aren’t you?” he asked, sitting down 
by her. 

She nodded. 

"I’m Cousin Arthur.” 

"Oh yes, I knew you were coming.” 

"Why have you put dolly behind your back?” 

"I thought you mightn’t like her. Mummy says she’s 
so ugly.” 

"Oh, bring her out. Let’s have a look at her! How 
did she lose her head?” 

"Patsy bit it off and ate it — at least she ate the face. 
It made her sick.” 

"Who’s Patsy ?” He was glad that Margaret had now 
put the doll back in her lap ; he took that for a mark of 
confidence. "Is she your dog?” 

"No, she’s Judith’s; but she lives here always and 
Judith doesn’t. I wish Judith did.” 

"What’s dolly’s name?” 

"Judith.” 

"I see you like Judith very much, don’t you? The real 
Judith — as well as dolly?” 

"Yes, very much. Don’t you?” 

"Yes, very much.” And then the conversation lan- 
guished. Arthur was only moderately apt with children, 
i68 


A SHADOW ON THE HOUSE 


and Margaret’s words had come slowly and with an 
appearance of consideration ; she did not at all suggest a 
chatterbox. But presently she gave him a look of timid 
inquiry, and remarked in a deprecating way, “I expect 
you don’t like guinea-pigs. Most people don’t. But if 
you did, I could show you mine. Only if you’re sure you 
like guinea-pigs !” 

Arthur laughed outright. For all the world, it was 
like the way Godfrey had invited him down to Hilsey! 
The same depreciation of what was offered, the same 
anxiety not to force an unwilling acceptance! 

^‘Guinea-pigs! I just love them!” he exclaimed with 
all possible emphasis. 

“Oh, well then!” said Margaret, almost resignedly, 
with a sort of “Your blood be on your own head” man- 
ner, as she jumped down and put her free hand into his ; 
the other held tight hold of the headless doll. “In the 
kitchen-garden !” 

Over the guinea-pigs he made a little progress in her 
good graces. She did not come out to meet a stranger 
with the fascinating trustfulness of some children; she 
had none of that confidence that she would be liked 
which makes liking almost inevitable. She was not 
pretty, though she was refined. But somehow she made 
an appeal to Arthur, to his chivalry — ^just as her father 
did to his generosity. Perhaps she too had not many 
friends, and did not hope for new ones. 

When the guinea-pigs gave out, she made him no more 
offers and risked no more invitations. In a grave silence 
she led him back from the kitchen-garden to the lawn. 
He was silent too, and grave, except for twitching lips. 
He saw that she could not be “rushed” into intimacy — 
it would never do to toss her up in the air and catch her, 
13 169 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


for instance — ^but he felt that their first meeting had been 
a success. 

A voice called from within a door adjacent to him: 
‘‘Margaret, your tea's ready." The child slipped her hand 
out of his and ran in without a word. A minute passed, 
Arthur standing where he was, looking at the old house. 
Judith came out and greeted him. 

“You've made an impression on Margaret," she told 
him, smiling. “She said to me, ‘I've shown Cousin 
Arthur my guinea-pigs, and I think he's going to be 
nice.' " 

“Guarded ! At any rate, in the way you emphasize it." 

“It's a lot from her, though, on so short an acquain- 
tance." 

He liked the look of Judith in country kit; she was 
dressed for exercise and conveyed an agreeable sugges- 
tion of fresh air and energy. “I'm all by myself; take 
me for a bit of a walk or something." 

“All right. We've time for a stroll before tea — it's 
always late." She set off towards a little bridge which 
crossed the river and led to a path through the meadows 
towards a fir wood on rising ground beyond. 

“How like the child is to Godfrey ! I suppose they’re 
very devoted to one another?" 

“Well, I think they are really. But they rather need 
an intermediary, all the same — somebody to tell Margaret 
that her father wants her, and vice versa. My function, 
Arthur — among others which you may have observed 
that I fulfil in the course of your study of the house- 
hold." 

He laughed. “I don't think I have studied it. What 
is there to study?" 

“There’s a good deal to study in every household, I 
170 


A SHADOW ON THE HOUSE 


expect.” They had scaled the hill and stood on the edge 
of the wood. “There’s a pretty view of the house from 
here,” she said, turning round. 

“By Jove, how jolly and — and peaceful, don’t you 
know? — it all looks!” 

Her eyes turned from the view to the young man’s 
face. She smiled, a little in scorn, more in pity. Be- 
cause he really seemed to identify the features of the 
landscape with the household at Hilsey Manor — a most 
pathetic fallacy ! But he had always been blind, 
strangely blind, dazzled by the blaze of his adoration. 
Yet she liked him for his blindness, and conceived it na 
business of hers to open his eyes. Though they were 
opened to a full glare of knowledge and sorrow, how 
would that help? 

To her own eyes there rested now a dark shadow 
over the house, a cloud that might burst in a storm. She 
felt a whimsical despair about her companion. How he 
soared in a heaven of his own making, with an angel of 
his own manufacture! With what a thud he would 
come to earth, and how the angel would moult her wings, 
if a certain thing happened ! Oh, what a fool he was — 
yet attractive in his folly! For the sake of woman, she 
could almost love him for the love he bore his Bernadette 
— who was not by a long way the real one. 

“I’m rather glad Wyse isn’t going to be here for a bit 
yet,” said Arthur thoughtfully. “We shall be jollier by 
ourselves.” 

Queer that he should put a name so pat to the shadow 
which he could not see! 

“I like him all right, but he’d be rather in the way, 
wouldn’t he?” 

Of a surety he was in the way — right plump in the 
171 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


middle of it ! There was sore doubt whether the family- 
coach could get by without a spill. 

‘Well, when he comes back, you mustn’t expect to 
monopolize Bernadette.” 

‘T don’t think I ever try to do that, do I?” he asked 
quickly, flushing a little. ‘T mean, I don’t set up to — 
well, I don’t make a bore of myself, do I ?” 

“Goodness, no! I suppose I meant that you mustn’t 
mind if Sir Oliver monopolizes her rather.” 

“Oh, but I shall mind that!” cried Arthur in dismay. 
Then he laughed. “But I’m hanged if he shall do it! 
I’ll put up a fight What happened when he was here 
before?” 

“Well, he’s her friend, you see, not mine or Godfrey’s. 
So naturally, I suppose ” 

“What did they do together?” 

“Motored mostly.” 

“That’d mean she’d be out half the day !” 

“Yes. All day sometimes.” 

By now they were strolling back. Arthur’s spirits had 
fallen somewhat ; this man Wyse might be a considerable 
bore! But then, when he was there before, there had 
been nobody else — no other man except Godfrey, and no 
other guest except Judith, who was almost one of the 
family. He would not find things quite the same when 
he came back, thought Arthur in his heart, sublimely sure 
that Bernadette would not ill-use him. On this reflection 
his spirits rose again, now spiced with combativeness. 
He would hold his own. 

“How did he and Godfrey hit it off?” 

“Oh, Godfrey just retired — you know his way.” 

“Into his shell? Doesn’t he like Sir Oliver?” 

“Does he like anybody — except me and you?” she 
172 


A SHADOW ON THE HOUSE 


asked, smiling ruefully. “And I think that perhaps he 
likes Sir Oliver rather less than most people. But it’s 
not easy to tell what he feels.” 

As a fact she had been much puzzled to know what 
Godfrey had been thinking, of late. He had said nothing 
to her ; she would readily swear that he had said nothing 
to Bernadette. He had been just a little more silent, 
more invisible, more solitary than usual. Of what was 
in his mind she knew really nothing. The pall of his 
passivity hid it all from her sight. 

It seemed to her that his passivity did more than hide 
him — that it must also to a great extent put him out of 
action, render him negligible, neutralize him, if and when 
it came to a fight. As an institution, as a condition, as a 
necessary part of a certain state of things — in fine, as 
being Mr. Lisle of Hilsey — he would no doubt, of neces- 
sity, receive attention. In that aspect he meant and rep- 
resented much — a whole position, a whole environment, 
a whole life. Church and state, home and society — 
Godfrey, the Institution, touched them all. But Godfrey, 
the man, the individual man — what consideration, what 
recognition could he expect if he thus effaced himself? 
If he put forward no claim, none would be admitted. If 
he made a nonentity of himself, he would be counted for 
naught. It might be urged that such had been the posi- 
tion for years, and that, with all its drawbacks, it had 
worked. The argument was futile now. A new and 
positive weight in the other scale upset the balance. 

“Well, do you like Sir Oliver yourself ?” asked Arthur, 
after some moments of silence. 

She paused before answering. ^Wes, I do,” she said 
in the end. “At any rate I rather admire him. There’s 
a sort of force about him. And — ^yes — I do like him 

173 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


too. You could trust him, I think.” Then it seemed to 
herself that this was an odd thing which had come to 
her lips — under existing circumstances. It was in expla- 
nation to herself, rather than for Arthur’s information, 
that she added, “I mean that, if he undertook anything 
towards you, he’d carry it out; you might rely on 
him.” 

“I don’t want him to undertake anything towards me,” 
said Arthur loftily. 

“Oh, the people outside those limits must shift for 
themselves — I think that would be entirely Sir Oliver’s 
view. But I’m not sure it’s a wrong one, are you?” It 
was still with her own thoughts that she was busy. She 
could not quite understand why she was not more angry 
with Oliver Wyse. She had no doubt by now of what 
he wanted. Surely it ought to make her angry? She 
was preeminently Godfrey’s friend — his kinsman, not 
Bernadette’s. She ought to be terribly angry. Even 
apart from moral considerations, family solidarity and 
friendly sympathy united to condemn the trespasser. She 
was loath to confess it to herself, but at the bottom of her 
heart she doubted if she were angry at all with Oliver 
Wyse. It was all so natural in him ; you might almost say 
that he was invited. Bernadette and Godfrey between 
them had set up a situation that invited the intervention 
of a strong man who knew what he wanted. Could the 
one complain with justice of being tempted, or the other 
of being wronged? To the friend and kinswoman her 
own impartial mind put these searching questions. 

“It’s a view that I quite cheerfully accept as between 
Oliver Wyse and myself,” said Arthur. There was a note 
of hostility in his voice, of readiness to accept a challenge. 
Then he realized that he was being absurd! He had 

174 


A SHADOW ON THE HOUSE 


the grace often to recognize that. He smiled as he added, 
''But, after all, he’s done me no harm yet, has he ?” 

The shadow hung over the house — aye, over his own 
head — ^but he did not see it. 


CHAPTER XVII 


FOR NO PARTICULAR REASON 

Norton Ward on a country visit gave the impression 
of a locomotive engine in a siding. His repose was so 
obviously temporary and at the mercy of any signal. He 
was not moving, but his thoughts were all of movement 
— of his own moves, of other people’s, of his counter- 
moves; or of his party’s moves, and the other party’s 
counter-moves. He could not at the moment be mold- 
ing and shaping his life; but, like a sculptor, he was 
contemplating the clay in the intervals of actual work, 
and planning all that he would do, so soon as he could get 
at it again. Even in hours of idleness he was brimful 
of a restless energy which, denied action for the moment, 
found its outlet in discussing, planning, speculating, mak- 
ing maps of lives, careers, and policies. 

^ xou bring London down with you in your port- 
manteau, Frank!” Sir Christopher expostulated. “We 
might be in the Lobby instead of under the trees here on 
a fine Sunday morning.” 

The old Judge lay back in a long chair. He was look- 
ing tired, delicate, and frail, his skin pale and waxy ; his 
hands were very thin. He had arrived cheerful but com- 
plaining of fatigue. The work of the Term had been 
hard ; he was turned seventy, and must think of retiring — 
so he told his hostess. 

“It’s so different,” he went on, “when it comes to look- 
176 


FOR NO PARTICULAR REASON 


ing back on it all, when it's all behind you. But, of 
course, men differ too. I never meant business to the 
extent you do. Fve done pretty well ; I won’t cry down 
what is, after all, a fine position. It was thought rather 
a job, by the way, making me a judge, but I was popular 
and what’s called a good fellow, and people swallowed 
the job without making a fuss. But work and what it 
brings have never been all the world to me. I’ve loved 
too many other things, and loved them too much.” 

“Oh, I know I’m a climber,” laughed Norton Ward. 
“I can’t help it. I try sometimes to get up an interest in 
some dilettante business or other, but I just can’t! I’m 
an infernal Philistine; all that sort of thing seems just 
waste of time to me.” 

“Well, then, to you it is waste of time,” said his wife. 

“We must follow our natures, no help for it. And 
that’s what one seems to have done when one looks 
back. One gets a little doubtful about Free Will, looking 
back.” 

“Yes, sir, but it’s awfully hard to know what your 
nature is,” Arthur interposed. He was lying on the 
grass, pulling up blades of it and tying them in knots for 
an amusement. 

“It works of itself, I think, without your knowing 
much about it — till, as I say, you can look back.” 

“But then it’s too late to do anything about it !” 

“Well, so it is, unless Eternity is an eternity of educa- 
tion, as some people say — a prospect which one’s lower 
nature is inclined to regard with some alarm.” 

“No amount of it will quite spoil you. Sir Christo- 
pher,” Esther assured him with an affectionate smile. 

“If this life can’t educate a man, what can?” asked 
Norton Ward. 


177 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“The view traditionally ascribed to Providence — ^with 
a most distressing corollary!” 

“I think, if a fellow’s come a mucker, he ought to 
have another chance,” said Arthur. 

“That’s what my criminals always tell me from the 
dock, Mr. Lisle.” 

“And what women say when they run away from their 
husbands,” added Norton Ward with a laugh. “By the 
way, I was talking to Elphinstone the other day about 
the effect this Divorce Reform movement might have 
if either party really took it up in earnest, and he was 
inclined to ” 

“Shall we hear Sir John Elphinstone’s views on this 
beautiful morning?’' asked the Judge. 

Norton Ward laughed again — at himself. “Oh, I beg 
your pardon! But after all it is some time since we 
touched on anything of practical interest.” 

“If death and judgment aren’t of practical interest. I’ll 
be hanged if I know what is !” 

“But neither of them exactly of immediate interest. 
Judge, we’ll hope!” 

“Well, what are you all talking about?” asked a voice 
from behind the group. Bernadette stood there, with 
parasol and prayer-book. She had been to church with 
Godfrey, Margaret, and Judith. 

“Death and judgment, Bernadette,” said Esther. 

“Not very cheerful! You might as well have come 
to church and dressed the family pew for us.” 

“Oh, but we were cheerful; we had just concluded that 
neither threatened any of us at present.” 

Bernadette took a seat among them, facing Arthur 
as he lay on the grass. She gave him a little nod of 
recognition; she was especially glad to find him there, 
178 


FOR NO PARTICULAR REASON 


it seemed to say. He smiled back at her, lazily happy, 
indolently enjoying the fair picture she presented. 

“It’s very artistic of you to go to church in the coun- 
try, Bernadette,” said the Judge. “It’s so much the right 
thing. But you always do the right thing. In fact I 
rather expected you to go so far as to bring the parson 
back to lunch. That was the ritual in my early days.” 

“I don’t overdo things, not even my duties,” smiled 
Bernadette. She was looking very pretty, very serene, 
rather mischievous. None the less, the parasol and the 
prayer-book gave her an orthodox air; she was quite 
pronouncedly Mrs. Lisle of Hilsey, sitting on her own 
lawn. After attending to her religious duties and setting 
a good example, she was now entertaining her house- 
party. 

“The others have gone for a walk before lunch, but 
it’s much too hot for walking,” she went on. 

“Oh, but you promised to go for a walk with me this 
afternoon, you know,” cried Arthur. 

“We’ll go and sit together somewhere instead, Arthur.” 

“We’re warned off! That’s pretty evident,” laughed 
Norton Ward. “You shouldn’t give her away before all 
of us, Arthur. If she does make assignations with 


“If she does make assignations, she keeps them — no 
matter who knows,” said Bernadette. A little mocking 
smile hung persistently about her lips as she sat there 
regarded by them all, the ornament of the group, the 
recipient of the flattery of their eyes. 

“If she made one with me,” said Sir Christopher, “I 
don’t think I should be able to keep it to myself either. 
I should be carried away by pride, as no doubt Mr. 
Lisle is.” 


179 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Would you kiss and tell, Sir Christopher?” smiled 
Bernadette. 

“Poets do — and such a kiss might make even me a 
poet.” 

“Evidently you’d better not risk it, Bernadette,” 
laughed Arthur. 

“Well, it hasn’t been the usual effect of my kisses,” 
Bernadette observed demurely. 

The mischievous reference to her husband seemed ob- 
vious. It forced a smile from all of them ; Esther added 
a reproving shake of her head. 

“Perhaps it’s as well, because I don’t think I should 
like poets, not about the house, you know.” 

“Now tell us your ideal man, Bernadette,” said the 
Judge. 

“Oh, I’ll tell each of you that in private!” 

To Esther Norton Ward, who knew her well, there 
seemed something changed in her. She was as serene, 
as gay, as gracious as ever. But her manner had lost 
something of the absolute naturalness which had pos- 
sessed so great a charm. She seemed more conscious 
that she exercised attraction, and more consciously to take 
pleasure — perhaps even a little pride — in doing it. She 
had never been a flirt, but now her speeches and glances 
were not so free from what makes flirtation, not so care- 
less of the effect they might produce or the response 
which might be evoked by them. To some degree the 
airs of a beauty had infected her simplicity ; graceful and 
dainty as they were, to her old friend’s thinking they 
marred the rarer charm. She was not so childlike, not 
so free from guile. But Esther did not suppose that the 
men would notice any change; if they did, they would 
probably like it. For being neither willing nor able to 
i8o 


FOR NO PARTICULAR REASON 


flirt herself, she was convinced that men liked flirts. 
Flirts both flattered their pride and saved them trouble. 
Perhaps there was some truth in her theory. 

For Esther’s own eyes the change in Bernadette was 
there, whether the men saw it or not. It was not obvious 
or obtrusive; it was subtle. But it was also pervasive. 
It tinged her words and looks with a provocativeness, a 
challenge, a consciousness of feminine power formerly 
foreign to them. She had meanings where she used to 
have none. She took aim at her mark. She knew what 
she wanted to eflfect and used means towards it. She no 
longer pleased herself and left her pleasure itself to make 
her charming. This was not the old Bernadette, Esther 
thought, as she watched her dexterously, triumphantly, 
keeping the three men in play. 

The men did notice, in varying degrees, though none 
with so clear a perception as the woman. Norton Ward, 
not quick to note subtleties in people and not curious about 
women, was content with thinking that Bernadette Lisle 
seemed in remarkably good form and spirits that Sunday 
— he observed on the fact at a later date. The Judge, 
a shrewder and more experienced observer in this line, 
smiled tolerantly at the way she was keeping her hand 
in by a flirtation with her handsome young kinsman by 
marriage ; she was not a fool, and it would do the boy 
good. Arthur too saw the change, or rather felt it, as 
he would feel a variation in the atmosphere. He could 
have given no such clear account of wherein it lay as 
Esther had arrived at, nor any such simple explanation 
as served for Norton Ward or Sir Christopher. Had 
he been pressed, he might have said — doubtfully — that 
she seemed to have become more his equal and more 
like other women in a way, though still infinitely more 
i8i 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


delightful. But, no man asking him to analyze his feel- 
ings, he did not attempt the vain task. The effect on 
him was there, whatever its explanation might be; in 
some vague fashion it was as though she put out a hand 
to raise him from the ground where he lay at her feet, 
his face hidden, and graciously intimated that he might 
kneel before her and dare to raise his eyes to hers. She 
treated him more as a man and less as a pet — was 
that it? This was the idea which came nearest to ex- 
plicitness in his mind; the proud pleasure with which 
he looked and listened had its source in some such inkling 
as that. He had grown in the last few months; both 
actually and in his own esteem he had developed; a 
recognition of his progress from her would crown the 
delight she gave him. 

She saw not only the men’s admiration, amused or 
dazzled; she perceived also Esther’s covert curiosity. 
She knew herself that she felt different and was being 
different. Esther Norton Ward knew it too! Very 
well, let her know. She did not know the reason yet. 
That she would learn hereafter. She caught Esther’s 
pondering glance and met it with a smile of mutinous 
merriment ; Esther might have pondered with more 
chance of enlightenment had she been at Hilsey during 
the week that Oliver Wyse had spent there ! 

“Why don’t you use your influence with that young 
man there and make him work?” asked Norton Ward 
of her. 

“The wise woman uses her influence to make men do 
what they want to do, but think they oughtn’t. Then 
they worship her, Frank.” 

“Oh, bosh! Henry’s in despair about you, Arthur — 
he’s pathetic!” 

182 


FOR NO PARTICULAR REASON 


“I like that!’' cried Arthur indignantly. “Didn’t he 
tell you about my case ? It was only in the County Court, 
of course, but ” 

“That’s it! Henry said you were very promising, if 
you’d only ” 

“Did you win a case, Arthur? Tell us about it.” 

Arthur told the story of his battle with Mr. Tiddes, 
and how Miss Silcock betrayed the fortress. 

“Splendid!” cried Bernadette, clapping her hands, 
her eyes all sparkling. “Arthur, you shall defend me, 
the first time I’m in trouble. Only I think I shall 
plead guilty, and throw myself on the mercy of his lord- 
ship.” 

“You’d get none from me, you baggage!” said Sir 
Christopher, who was wondering how the deuce any 
young fellow could resist her. 

“Call witnesses to character, anyhow. We’d all come,” 
laughed Norton Ward. 

“You’d all come as witnesses to my character?” Her 
laugh came low but rich, hearty, charged with malicious 
enjoyment. “I wonder if you would!” 

“Witnesses to character don’t help the prisoner very 
much, and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred convict 
themselves of stupidity — which they invite the Judge to 
share. What they really come to say is: ‘We’ve made 
a mistake about this fellow all these years. He’s been too 
clever for us!’ Why should that help him? I’m very 
careful about letting that sort of thing interfere with my 
sentences.” 

“But oughtn’t the prisoner to get a reward for past 
good character, Sir Christopher? Because it may not 
have been a case of deceiving his friends. He may have 
changed himself.” 


183 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Well, it’s the changed man I’m sentencing. Why 
shouldn’t he get it hot?” 

“I shall not throw myself on the mercy of this par- 
ticular lordship,” said Bernadette. “He hasn’t got any, 
that’s obvious.” 

“No, you’d better get out of my jurisdiction!” 

“That would be the best thing to do, I think — get out 
of the jurisdiction.” She rose with a laugh. “Also I’m 
going to get out of this church-going frock and into 
something cool and comfortable for lunch.” Before she 
went, she had a last word for Sir Christopher. “The 
prisoner may have deceived himself as well as his friends, 
mayn’t he? And he may surprise himself in the end, 
just as much as he surprises them. Come along, Arthur, 
and help me to make some hock-cup before I change — 
Barber’s no good at it.” 

The Judge looked after her as she walked away, at- 
tended by Arthur. “That was rather an acute remark 
of hers,” he said. 

“Yes, I wonder what made her say it!” Esther was 
looking puzzled and thoughtful again. 

“Oh, come, we all of us make intelligent general ob- 
servations at times, Esther.” 

“I don’t think Bernadette’s much given to general ob- 
servations, though.” 

“Anyhow it’s good to see her in such spirits,” said 
Norton Ward, “Rather surprising too, since you’re 
talking of surprises. Because between ourselves — and 
now that the family’s out of hearing — I may say that our 
host is even unusually poor company just now.” 

“As Bernadette’s very little in his company, that 
doesn’t so much matter.” 

“Esther, my dear, you sound rather tart,” said Sir 
184 


FOR NO PARTICULAR REASON 


Christopher. “Come and drink the hock-cup; it’ll make 
you more mellow.” 

Bernadette’s gay and malicious humor persisted 
through lunch, but when, according to her promise, she 
sat with Arthur on the seat by the river, sheltered by a 
tree, her mood had changed; she was very friendly, 
but pensive and thoughtful beyond her wont. She looked 
at him once or twice as if she meant to speak, but ended 
by saying nothing. At last she asked him whether he had 
seen anything of the Sarradets lately. 

“Not since my lunch — when you met Marie,” he an- 
swered. He was smoking his pipe, and now and then 
throwing pebbles into the river — placidly happy. 

“I liked her awfully. You mustn’t drop her, Arthur. 
She’s been a good friend to you, hasn’t she?” 

“Oh, she’s a rare good sort, Marie! I don’t want to 
drop her, but somehow I’ve got out of the way of seeing 
so much of her. You know what I mean? I don’t go 
where she does, and she doesn’t go much where I do.” 

“But you could make efforts — more lunches, for in- 
stance,” she suggested. 

“Oh, yes, I could — sometimes I do. But — well, it’s 
just that the course of my life has become different.” 

“I’m afraid the course of your life means me to a 
certain extent.” 

He laughed. “You began it, of course, when you 
came to Bloomsbury Street. Do you remember?” 

“Yes, I remember all right. But I don’t want you to 
lose your friends through me.” Again she glanced at 
him in hesitation, but this time she spoke. “You may 
find me a broken reed, after all. Cousin Arthur.” 

He smoked for a moment, then laid down his pipe. 
“I’m fond of you all,” he said. “You know how well 
13 185 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Godfrey and I get on. IVe made friends with Judith, 
and I’m making friends with Margaret. And — we’re too 
good pals to say much — but you know what you are to 
me, Bernadette.” 

"‘Yes, I know, Cousin Arthur.” 

“So I don’t know what you mean by talking about 
broken reeds.” 

She gave a little sigh, but said no more for the mo- 
ment. She seemed to be on another tack when she spoke 
again. “It’s a wonderful thing to be alive, isn’t it? I 
don’t mean just to breathe and eat and sleep, but to be 
alive really — to — to tingle !” 

“It’s a wonderful thing to see in you sometimes,” he 
laughed. “Why, this morning, for instance, you — ^you 
seemed to be on fire with it. And for no particular 
reason — except, I suppose, that it was a fine day !” 

She smiled again as she listened, but now rather rue- 
fully. “For no particular reason!” She could not help 
smiling at that. “Well, I hope I didn’t scorch anybody 
with my fire,” she said. 

“You made us all madly in love with you, of course.” 

She gave him a little touch on the arm. “Never mind 
the others. You mustn’t be that. Cousin Arthur.” 

He turned to her in honest seriousness. “As long as 
you’ll be to me just what you are now, there’s nothing 
to worry about. I’m perfectly content.” 

“But suppose I should — change!” 

“I shan’t suppose anything of the sort,” he interrupted 
half-angrily. “Why should you say that?” 

Her heart failed her; she could not give him further 
warning. Words would not come to her significant 
enough without being blunt and plain; that again she 
neither could nor would be. Something of her malice 
i86 


FOR NO PARTICULAR REASON 


revived in her; if he could not see, he must remain 
blind — till the flash of the tempest smote light even into 
his eyes. It must be so. She gave a little shrug of her 
shoulders. 

“A mood, I suppose ! Just as I had a mood this morn- 
ing — and, as you say, for no particular reason!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


GOING TO RAIN 

The departure of the Norton Wards and Sir Chris- 
topher on Monday morning left Arthur alone with the 
family party at Hilsey Manor, To live alone with a 
family is a different thing from being one of a bevy of 
visitors. The masks are off, the home life is seen more 
intimately, the household politics reveal themselves to 
the intelligent outsider. During the days which inter- 
vened between his own arrival and that of Oliver Wyse, 
Arthur’s eyes were opened to several things, and first of 
all to the immense importance of Judith Arden in the 
household. He soon found himself wondering how it got 
on at all in the winter, when she was not there; he had 
not yet known his cousins through a winter. She was 
in touch with all three of them ; her love for animals and 
outdoor things made her in sympathy with the little girl ; 
her cheerfulness and zest for enjoyment united her with 
Bernadette; her dry and satiric humor, as well as her 
interest in books, appealed to Godfrey’s temper. Thus 
she served, as she herself had hinted to Arthur, as an 
intermediary, an essential go-between; she was always 
building bridges and filling up chasms, trying to persuade 
them that they had more in common than they thought, 
trying to make them open their hearts to one another, 
and distributing herself, so to say, among them in the 
way best calculated to serve these ends. Arthur soon ob- 
i88 


GOING TO RAIN 


served with amusement that she aimed at distributing 
him also fairly among the family — now assigning him to 
Margaret, now contriving for him a walk with Godfrey, 
then relinquishing him to Bernadette for a while, and 
thus employing him, as she employed herself, as a link; 
their common liking for him was to serve as a bond of 
union. It was the task of a managing woman, and he 
would have said that he hated managing women. But it 
was impossible to hate Judith; she set about her task 
with so much humor, and took him into her confidence 
about it not so much in words as by quick amused 
glances which forbade him to resent the way she was 
making use of him. Very soon he was sympathizing 
with her and endeavoring to help in her laudable en- 
deavor after family unity. 

She still persevered in it, though she had little or no 
hope left, and was often tempted to abandon the strug- 
gle to preserve what, save for the child’s sake perhaps, 
seemed hardly worth preserving. Though she actually 
knew nothing of how matters stood between Bernadette 
and Oliver — nothing either of what they had done or of 
what they meant to do — though she had intercepted no 
private communication, and surprised no secret meet- 
ings, she was sure of what Oliver wanted and of what 
Bernadette felt. The meaning of the change that puz- 
zled Esther Norton Ward was no riddle to her; the 
touch of love had awakened the instinct to coquetry 
and fascination; feelings long latent and idle were once 
more in activity, swaying the woman’s soul and ruling 
her thoughts. Judith had little doubt of what the end 
would be, whether it came clandestinely or openly, or 
passed from the one to the other, as such things often 
did. Still, so long as there was a chance, so long as she 
189 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


had a card to play ! She played Cousin Arthur now 

— for what he was worth. After all, it was for his own 
good too ; he was a deeply interested party. When she 
saw that he understood her efforts, though not how ur- 
gent was the need of them, and was glad to help, her 
heart went out to him, and she found a new motive for 
the labors she had been tempted to abandon. 

She got no help from Godfrey Lisle. He was sulking; 
no other word is so apt to describe his attitude towards 
the thing which threatened him. Though he did not know 
how far matters had or had not gone, he too had seen a 
change in his wife; he had watched her covertly and 
cautiously ; he had watched Oliver Wyse. Slowly he had 
been driven from indifference into resentment and jeal- 
ousy, as he recognized Bernadette’s feelings. He tried to 
shut his eyes to the possibility of a crisis that would 
call for all the qualities which he did not possess — cour- 
age, resolution, determination; and perhaps also for an 
affection which he had lost and an understanding which 
he had never braced himself to attain. Since he could 
not or dared not act, he declared that there lay on him 
no obligation. He hated the idea, but it was not his. It 
was Bernadette’s — and hers the responsibility. He ^'de- 
clined to believe it,” as people say so often of a situation 
with which they cannot or are afraid to grapple. He 
did believe it, but declining to believe it seemed at once 
to justify his inaction and to aggravate his wife’s guilt. 
Thus it came about that he was fighting the impending 
catastrophe with no better weapon than the sulks. 

At first the sulks had been passive; he had merely 
withdrawn himself, gone into his shell, after his old fash- 
ion. But under the influence of his grudge and his un- 
happiness he went further now, not of set purpose, but 
190 


GOING TO RAIN 


with an instinctive striving after the sympathy and sup- 
port for which he longed, and an instinctive desire to 
make the object of his resentment uncomfortable. He 
tried to gather a party for himself, to win the members 
of the household to his side, to isolate Bernadette. This 
effort affected his manner towards her. It lost some of 
its former courtesy, or at least his politeness was purely 
formal; he became sarcastic, disagreeable, difficult over 
the small questions of life which from time to time 
cropped up ; he would call the others to witness how un- 
reasonable Bernadette was, or to join him in ridiculing 
or depreciating her pursuits, her tastes, or her likings. 
Sometimes there was an indirect thrust at Oliver Wyse 
himself. 

Being in the wrong on the main issue generally makes 
people anxious to be in the right in subsidiary matters. 
Bernadette, conscious of the cause of her husband’s sur- 
liness, met it with perfect good-nature — ^behaved really 
like an angel under it, thought Judith with one of her 
bitterly humorous smiles. Arthur, a stranger to the 
cause of the surliness — for though he had given Oliver 
Wyse a thought or two on his own account, he had given 
him none on Godfrey’s score — was troubled at it, and 
proportionately admired the angelic character of the re- 
sponse. His chivalry took fire. 

“What’s the matter with the old chap?” he asked 
Judith. “He’s downright rude to her sometimes. He 
never used to be that.” 

“Something’s upset him, I suppose— some little griev- 
ance. I don’t think she minds, you know.” 

“I mind, though, especially when he seems to expect 
me to back him up. I’ll soon show him I won’t 
do it!” 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


** You’d much better not mix yourself up in it — what- 
ever it is. It won’t last long, perhaps.” 

“I can’t stand it if it does. I shall have it out with him. 
The way Bernadette stands it is perfectly wonderful.” 

Another halo for the fair and saintly head! Judith 
jerked her own head impatiently. The natural woman 
longed to cry out : “Don’t you see how clever the minx 
is ?” Sometimes the natural woman was tempted to wish 
that Oliver Wyse would swoop down, carry off his prey, 
and end the whole situation. 

But there was to be a little more of it yet, a little more 
time for the fascination of the new manner and the halo 
of imputed saintliness to work. Oliver Wyse had inter- 
rupted his visit by reason of the illness of an old uncle, 
to whom he had owed his start in life and whom he could 
not neglect. It had proved rather a long business — Ber- 
nadette read a passage from Sir Oliver’s letter to the 
company at breakfast — but the old man was convales- 
cent at last, and Sir Oliver would be able to leave him in 
three or four days more, if all went well. 

“So, if I may. I’ll settle provisionally to be with you 
next Friday,” said the letter. It went on — and Berna- 
dette also went on composedly — “So there ought to be 
nothing in the way of our making the motor excursion I 
suggested one day in the following week, if you’ve a 
mind for it then.” She folded up the letter, laid it be- 
side her, took a sip of coffee, and caught Judith’s eyes 
regarding her with what seemed like an amused admira- 
tion. Her own glance in return was candid and simple. 
“I’m afraid I forget what his excursion was to be, but it 
doesn’t matter.” 

“I haven’t had my excursion yet,” Arthur complained. 
“The fact is we’ve done hardly anything since I came.” 

192 


GOING TO RAIN 


'Well, you shall have yours to-morrow, if it’s fine,” 
Bernadette promised. 

"For how long does Oliver Wyse propose to honor us ?” 
asked Godfrey, glowering and glum at the other end of 
the table. 

"I really don’t exactly know. A week or so, I should 
think.” 

Godfrey grunted surlily. "A week too much!” the 
grunt plainly said. He turned to Arthur. "Yes, you’d 
better get your excursion while you can. When Wyse is 
here, we none of us get much chance at the car.” 

Saintliness ignored the grumble. Arthur fidgeted un- 
der it. "If you want the car. I’m sure I don’t want to 
take it from you, Godfrey,” he said, rather hotly. 

"Oh, I spoke in your interest. I’m not likely to be 
asked to go on a motor excursion !” 

"You wouldn’t go for the world, if you were asked,” 
said Judith. 

"It’ll hold us all. Anybody can come who likes,” re- 
marked Bernadette meekly. 

"That’s a very pressing invitation, isn’t it?” Godfrey 
growled to Arthur, asking his sympathy. 

Little scenes like this were frequent now, though Oli- 
ver Wyse’s name was not often dragged into them ; God- 
frey shrank from doing that often, for fear of defiance 
and open war. More commonly it was just a sneer at 
Bernadette, a "damper” administered to her merriment. 
But Arthur resented it all, and came to fear it, so that 
he no longer sought his cousin’s company on walks or 
in his study, but left him to his own melancholy devices. 
The unhappy man, sensitive as he was, saw the change 
in a moment and hailed a new grievance; his own kins- 
man, now, his wife was setting against him ! 

193 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


In fact, Bernadette’s influence was all thrown in the 
other scale. It was she who prevented Arthur from 
open remonstrance, forbade him to be her champion, in- 
sisted that he should still, to as great a degree as his 
feelings would allow, be his cousin’s friend and compan- 
ion. She was really and honestly sorry for Godfrey, and 
felt a genuine compunction about him — though not an 
overwhelming one. Godfrey had not loved her for a 
long while; Oliver Wyse was not responsible for that. 
But she had led him to suppose that she was content 
with the state of affairs between them; in fact she had 
been pretty well content with it. Now she had changed — 
and proposed to act accordingly. Acting accordingly 
would mean not breaking his heart but dealing a sore 
blow at his pride, shattering his home, upsetting his life 
utterly. She really wanted to soften the blow as much as 
possible; if she left him, she wanted to leave him with 
friends — people he liked — about him; with Margaret, 
with Judith, and with Arthur. Then she could picture 
him as presently settling down comfortably enough. Per- 
haps there was an alloy of self-regard in this feeling — a 
salve to a conscience easily salved — ^but in the main it 
came of the claim of habit and old partnership, and of 
her natural kindliness. These carried her now beyond 
her first delight in the drama of the situation ; that per- 
sisted and recurred, but she was also honestly trying to 
make the catastrophe as little of a catastrophe as was 
possible, consistently with the effecting of its main object. 
So it came about that, in these last days before Oliver 
Wyse arrived, she thought more about her husband than 
she had done for years before, and treated his surliness 
with a most commendable patience. 

Although Arthur’s relations with Godfrey had thus 
194 


GOING TO RAIN 


suffered a check, his friendship with little Margaret 
throve ; the shy child gradually allowed him an approach 
to intimacy. They had rambles together, and consulta- 
tions over guinea-pigs and gardening. Here Arthur saw 
a chance of seconding Judith’s efforts after family unity. 
Here there was room, even in his eyes — for Bernadette, 
though kind and affectionate in her bearing towards the 
child, did not make a companion of her. Inspired by 
this idea, he offered a considerable sacrifice of his own 
inclination. When the day came for his motor excursion, 
he proposed to Bernadette that Margaret should be of 
the party. ‘‘It’ll be such a tremendous treat for her to 
be taken with you,” he said. 

Bernadette was surprised, amused, just a little cha- 
grined. In her own mind she had invested this excur- 
sion with a certain garb of romance or of sentiment. 
It was to be, as she reckoned, in all likelihood her last 
long tete-a-tete (the driver on the front seat did not 
count) with Cousin Arthur; it was to be in some sort a 
farewell — not to a lover indeed, but yet to a devotee. 
True, the devotee was not aware of that fact, but he 
must know that Oliver Wyse’s arrival would entail a 
considerable interruption of his opportunities for devo- 
tion. Arthur’s proposal was reassuring, of course, in 
regard to his feelings; for it did not seem to her that it 
could come from one who was in any danger of suc- 
cumbing to a passion, and once or twice in these later 
days a suspicion that the situation might develop in that 
awkward fashion had made its way into her mind. Ar- 
thur must be safe enough as to that if he were ready to 
abandon his long tHe-a-tHe! She was really glad to 
think that she could dismiss the suspicion. But she was 
also a little disappointed over her sentimental excursion 

195 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


— at having it turned into what was in effect a family- 
party. Even talk about sentiment would be at a discount 
with Margaret there. 

^'It’ll be rather a long day for her, won’t it?” she 
asked. 

''It’ll be such a great thing to her, and we can cut it a 
bit shorter,” he urged. 

With a slight lift of her brows and a smile, Bernadette 
yielded. "Oh, all right, then !” 

"How awfully good of you !” he cried. "How awfully 
good of me!” would have seemed to her an exclamation 
more appropriate in his mouth at the moment. 

The child was sent for, to hear the great news. She 
came and stood dutifully by her mother’s knee, and Ber- 
nadette put her arm round her waist. 

"Cousin Arthur and I are going for a long drive in the 
car. We shall take our lunch, and eat it by the roadside, 
and have great fun. And you’re to come with us, Mar- 
garet 1” 

The delighted smile which was expected (by Arthur, 
at least, most confidently) to illuminate the child’s solemn 
little face did not make its appearance. After a momen- 
tary hesitation, Margaret said: "Yes, mummy.” 

"You like to come, don’t you, Margaret?” 

"Yes, mummy.” She looked down and fidgeted her 
toe on the carpet. "If you wish me to.” 

"No, dear, I want to know what you wish. Were you 
going to do something else ?” 

"Well, Judith had promised to take me with her to 
Mrs. Beard’s this morning, and show me Mrs. Beard’s 
rabbits.” 

The tone was undeniably wistful, whether the main 
attraction lay in Judith, in Mrs. Beard, or in the rabbits. 

196 


GOING TO RAIN 


The combination was a powerful one in Margaret’s eyes. 

“And would you rather do that than come with us?” 
Bernadette went on very kindly, very gently. 

The toe worked hard at the carpet. 

“Do just what you like, dear. I only want you to 
please yourself.” 

“If you really don’t mind, mummy, I think I would 
rather ” 

“Very well, then !” Bernadette kissed her. “Run away 
to Judith !” 

The delighted smile came at last, as Margaret looked 
up in gratitude at her kind mother. 

“Oh, thank you so much, mummy!” And she darted 
off with an unusual gleefulness. 

Bernadette, her part of kind mother admirably played, 
looked across at Arthur. He was so crestfallen that she 
could not forbear from laughing. His scheme a failure, 
his sacrifice thwarted! The father sulked; the child, 
with an innocent but fatal sincerity, repelled advances. 
Things looked bad for the unifiers ! Indeed one of them 
had put her foot neatly through the plan devised by the 
other. Judith knew about the proposed excursion; clear- 
ly she had not thought it possible that Margaret would 
be asked to join, or she would never have arranged the 
visit to Mrs. Beard. 

“We’re unfortunate in meeting a strong counter- 
attraction, Arthur. We’ve overrated the charms of our 
society, I’m afraid.” Though Bernadette laughed, she 
spoke in dry tones, and her look was malicious. 

Arthur felt foolish. When once the scheme was a 
failure, it came to look futile, hopeless — and terribly ob- 
vious. Bernadette saw through it, of course; her look 
told him that. 


197 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


'‘Oh, well, I suppose rabbits are he murmured 

feebly. 

“Rabbits — and Judith!” She rose and went to the 
window. “I rather think it’s going to rain.” Then after 
a pause she went on: “I think you’re rather a conven- 
tionally minded person, Arthur.” 

He attempted no defense. She had seen through the 
scheme — Oh, quite clearly 1 She was vexed too ; she was 
frowning now, as she stood by the window. 

“You can’t have the same tastes and — and likings as 
people have just because you happen to be some relation 
or other to them. It’s no use trying.” She gave an im- 
patient little shake of her head. She had not altogether 
liked the child’s being asked; she liked no better the 
child’s being unwilling to come. Little as she had wanted 
Margaret’s company, it was not flattering to be postponed 
in her regard to rabbits — and Judith. Still, if the child 
did prefer rabbits and Judith — well, there was the com- 
forting reflection that she could always have rabbits at a 
very moderate cost, and that there was no reason to 
apprehend that she would be deprived of Judith. What 
she valued least was the thing she was most likely to 
lose, as matters stood at present. Hurt vanity wrested 
the little girl’s innocent sincerity into an argument for 
Bernadette’s secret purpose. 

“I don’t like the look of that cloud. I’m sure it’s going 
to rain.” 

Arthur glanced out of the window in a perfunctory 
way; he felt that he would have to accept Bernadette’s 
view of the weather prospects, however subjective that 
view might be. 

She was out of conceit with the excursion. All this 
“fuss,” as she expressed it in the primitive phraseology of 
198 


GOING TO RAIN 


inward reflection — spoilt it. She was rather out of 
humor even with Cousin Arthur. She did not mind 
Judith planning and scheming in the interests of family 
union; she was used to that, and regarded it with an 
amused toleration. But she did not fancy Arthur’s un- 
dertaking the same role. In her conception his proper 
attitude was that of a thoroughgoing partisan and noth- 
ing else. As such, he had been about to receive the 
tribute of that excursion. Now she was no more inclined 
to it. That sort of thing depended entirely on being in 
the mood for it. Arthur’s — ^well, yes, Arthur’s stupidity 
— and Margaret’s — well, yes, Margaret’s ungracious- 
ness — had between them spoilt it. She felt tired of the 
whole thing — tired and impatient. 

'T think we’ll wait for a safer day, Arthur.” 

‘^All right. Just as you like.” He was hurt, but felt 
himself in fault and attempted no protest; he knew that 
she was displeased with him — for the first time in all 
their acquaintance. 

So the car was counter-manded. But the next day was 
no safer, nor the day that followed. Then came Friday, 
which was otherwise dedicated. Neither as a sentimental 
farewell nor as a family party did that excursion ever 
happen. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE LAST ENTRENCHMENT 

Chi that Friday morning Arthur’s seclusion — for thus 
his stay at Hilsey might be described, so remote it seemed 
from the rest of his life, so isolated and self-contained — 
was invaded by the arrival of two letters concerned with 
matters foreign to Hilsey and its problems or emotions. 

The first he opened was from Joe Halliday, and treated 
of the farce. Joe wrote with his usual optimism; pros- 
pects were excellent; the company which had been en- 
gaged was beyond praise. But there was a difficulty, a 
hitch. The producer, Mr. Langley Ether ingham, a man 
of authority in his line, declared that the last act needed 
strengthening, and that he knew what would strengthen 
it. The author, Mr. Claud Beverley, denied that it 
needed strengthening and (still more vigorously) that 
Mr. Etheringham knew how to do it. There was fric- 
tion. Joe was undecided between the two. 

We three are going to meet on Sunday and have a good 
go at it [he wrote]. Thrash the thing out, you know, and 
get at a decision. Tve got Claud to agree to so much after 
a lot of jaw — authors are silly asses, sometimes, you know. 
Now I want you to come up to-morrow or next day, and 
go through the piece with me, and then come on Sunday 
too. You’ll bring a fresh mind to it that will, I think, be 
valuable — I seem to know it so well that I really can’t judge 
it — and you’ve put in so much of the money that both Claud 
200 


THE LAST ENTRENCHMENT 


and Langley (though he’s a despotic sort of gent) will be 
bound to listen to your opinion, whatever it is. Come if you 
can, old chap. I’ve no doubt of success, anyhow, but this is 
rather important. Above all, we don’t want Claud and Lang- 
ley at loggerheads even before we begin rehearsals. 

Frowning thoughtfully, Arthur proceeded to read the 
second letter. It came from Henry: 

I beg to inform you that Messrs. Wills and Mayne rang 
up at two o’clock to-day to ask if you were in town. I had 
to say that you had been called away on business but could 
be here to-morrow (in accordance with your instructions). 
They replied that they regretted the matter could not wait. 
I did not therefore wire you, but I think it proper to inform 
you of the matter. Yours obediently 

Appeal from Joe Halliday; plain though tacit re- 
proach from Henry ! A chance lost at the Temple ! How 
big a chance there was no telling. There never is in 
such cases. A cry for help from the Syndicate! His 
legitimate mistress, the Law, was revenging herself for 
his neglect ; Drama, the nymph of his errant fancy, whom 
he had wooed at the risk of a thousand pounds (or in- 
deed, if a true psychology be brought to bear on the 
transaction, of fifteen hundred), might do the like unless 
he hastened to her side. 

Pangs of self-reproach assailed Arthur as he sat on 
the lawn smoking his pipe. Moreover he was not in 
such perfect good humor with Hilsey as he was wont to 
be. The miscarriage of his excursion rankled in his 
mind, the perfection of his harmony with Bernadette 
was a trifle impaired ; there had been a touch of aloofness 
in her manner the last two days. Godfrey was too 
grumpy for words. Finally, to-day Oliver Wyse was 
14 201 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


coming. Was Hilsey really so fascinating that for its 
beaux yeux a man must risk his interests, neglect his 
profession, and endanger, even by the difference of a 
hair, a dramatic success which was to outvie the triumph 
of Help Me Out Quickly f Yet he was annoyed at hav- 
ing to put this question to himself, at having to ask him- 
self how he stood towards Hilsey and how Hilsey stood 
to him. And, down in his heart, he knew that it would 
be very difficult to go if Bernadette really wanted him to 
stay — and a very distressful departure for him if it ap- 
peared that she did not ! 

Judith came out of the house, crossed the lawn, and 
sat down in a chair opposite him. They had met earlier 
in the day, and greeting did not seem necessary to Ar- 
thur’s preoccupied mind. He was smoking rather hard, 
and still frowning over his problem. Judith, on the 
other hand, seemed to be engaged with some secret source 
of amusement, although amusement of a rather sardonic 
order. Her mouth was twisted in a satirical smile — not 
at Arthur’s expense, but at the expense of some person 
or persons unknown. 

Arthur did not notice her expression, but presently he 
announced to her the outcome of his thoughts. 

'T think I shall have to go back to town to-morrow 
for a bit; some business has turned up.” 

Her eyes met his quickly, and, somehow, rather sus- 
piciously. *‘Oh, don’t you run away too !” she said. 

'‘Run away too! What do you mean? Who’s run- 
ning away? What are you grinning at, Judith?” The 
word, though not complimentary, really described the 
character of her smile. 

"Godfrey’s gone to bed.” 

"Gone to bed? Why, he was at breakfast!” 

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THE LAST ENTRENCHMENT 


‘T know. But he says he got up feeling seedy, and 
now he feels worse. So he’s gone to bed.” 

Arthur looked hard at her, and gradually smiled him- 
self. “What’s the matter with him?” 

“He says he’s got a bad liver attack. But I — I think 
he’s left out the first letter.” 

“Left out ? Oh, no, you don’t mean ?” He 

burst out laughing. “Well, I’m jiggered !” 

“Oliveritis — that’s my diagnosis. He does go to bed 
sometimes, you know, when — well, when the world gets 
too hard for him, poor Godfrey !” 

“Oh, I never heard of such a thing ! It can’t be that ! 
Does he hate him as much as that ?” 

“He doesn’t like him.” 

“Do you think that’s why he’s been so grumpy lately ?” 

“I suppose he’d say that was the liver attack coming 
on, but — well, I’ve told you !” 

“But to go to bed!” Arthur chuckled again. “Well, 
I am jiggered!” 

“You may be jiggered as much as you like — but must 
you go to London?” 

“Does Bernadette know he’s gone to bed ?” Pursuing 
his own train of amused wonder, Arthur did not mark 
Judith’s question, with its note of appeal. 

“I told Barber to tell her. I didn’t think I should look 
grave enough — or perhaps Bernadette either!” 

“Why, would she tumble to its being — Oliveritis?” 

“She’d have her suspicions, I think. I asked you just 
now whether you really must go to London, Arthur.” 

“Well, I don’t want to — though I’ve a slight touch of 
that disease of Godfrey’s myself — ^but I suppose I ought. 
It’s like this.” He told her of the lost chance at cham- 
bers, and of Joe Halliday’s summons. “It’s no use going 
203 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


to-day,” he ended, '‘but I expect I ought to go to-mor- 
row.” 

"Yes, I expect you ought,” she agreed gravely. "You 
mustn’t miss chances because of — ^because of us down 
here.” 

"It isn’t obvious that I’m any particular sort of use 
down here, is it?” 

"You’re of use to me, anyhow, Arthur.” 

"To you?” He was evidently surprised at this aspect 
of the case. 

"Yes; but you weren’t thinking of me, were you? 
However, you are. Things aren’t always easy here, as 
you may have observed, and it’s a great comfort to have 
someone to help — someone to grumble to, or — or to share 
a smile with, you know.” 

"That’s very nice of you. You know I’ve always sup- 
posed you thought me rather an ass.” 

"Oh, in some ways, yes, of course you are!” She 
laughed, but not at all unpleasantly. "I should have 
liked to have you here through — ^well, through Sir 
Oliver.” 

"The chap’s a bit of a nuisance, isn’t he? Well, I 
needn’t make up my mind till to-morrow. It’s no use 
going to-day, and to-morrow’s Saturday. So Sunday for 
the piece, and chambers on Monday ! That’d be all right 
— especially as I’ve probably lost my only chance. I’ll 
wait till to-morrow, and see how Sir Oliver shapes!” 
He ended with a laugh, as his mind went back to God- 
frey. "Gone to bed — poor old chap !” 

Judith joined again in his laugh. Godfrey’s course of 
action struck on their humor as the culmination, the su- 
preme expression, of his attitude towards the world and 
its troubles. He could not fight them in the open; he 
204 


THE LAST ENTRENCHMENT 


took refuge from them within his fortifications. If they 
laid siege and the attack pressed hotly, he retreated from 
the outer to the inner defenses. What the philosopher 
found in a mind free from passions — a citadel than which 
a man has nothing more secure whereto he can fly for 
refuge and there be inexpugnable— Godfrey Lisle found 
in a more material form. He found it in bed ! 

But when Arthur went up to see his cousin, his amuse- 
ment gave place, in some measure, to sympathy. Pity 
for his forlornness asserted itself. Godfrey insisted that 
he was ill ; he detailed physical symptoms ; he assumed a 
bravado about ^‘sticking it out” till to-morrow, and not 
having the doctor till then, about ‘'making an effort” to 
get up to-morrow. Through it all ran a suspicion that 
he was himself suspected. Bernadette was in the room 
part of the time. She, too, was sympathetic, very kind, 
and apparently without any suspicion. True that she 
did not look at Arthur much, but that might have been 
accidental, or the result of her care for her husband. If 
it were a sign that she could not trust herself in confiden- 
tial glances, it was the only indication she gave of scep- 
ticism as to the liver attack. 

At lunch time too her admirable bearing and the pres- 
ence of Margaret enforced gravity and a sympathetic 
attitude, though out of the patient’s hearing it was pos- 
sible to treat his condition with less seriousness. 

“He’s fanciful about himself sometimes,” said Berna- 
dette. “It’s nerves partly, I expect. We must cheer 
him up all we can. Margaret can go and sit with him 
presently, and you might go up again later, Arthur. He 
likes to talk to you, you know. And” — she smiled — “if 
Godfrey’s laid up, you’ll have to help me with Sir Oli- 
ver. You must be host, if he can’t.” 

205 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Bernadette had not practised any of her new graces 
on Arthur since the miscarriage of the excursion ; either 
the check to her sentiment, the little wound to her vanity, 
prevented her, or else she had grown too engrossed in 
the near prospect of Oliver Wyse’s arrival. At all 
events, the new manner had been in abeyance. She had 
been her old self, with her old unmeditated charm; it 
had lost nothing by being just a little pensive — not low- 
spirited, but thoughtful and gentle. She had borne her- 
self thus towards all of them. She showed no uneasiness, 
no fear of being watched. She was quite simple and 
natural. Nor did she pretend any exaggerated indiffer- 
ence about Oliver. She accepted the fact that he came 
as her particular friend and that she was glad of his 
coming in that capacity. They all knew about that, of 
course, just as they knew that Cousin Arthur was her 
devotee. All simple and natural — when Oliver Wyse was 
not there. Arthur, who had not been at Hilsey during 
Sir Oliver’s first visit, was still in the dark. Judith 
Arden had her certainty, gained from the observation of 
the two in the course of it — and Godfrey his gnawing 
suspicion. 

For Bernadette, absorbed, fascinated, excited, had been 
a little off her guard then — and Oliver Wyse had not 
taken enough pains to be on his. He was not clever at 
the concealment and trickery which he so much disliked. 
His contempt for Godfrey Lisle made him refuse to 
credit him with either the feelings or the vigilance of a 
husband. He had not troubled his head much about 
Judith, not caring greatly whether she suspected what 
he felt or not; what could she do or say about it? As 
his power over Bernadette increased, as his assurance of 
victory had grown, so had the signs of them — those signs 
206 


THE LAST ENTRENCHMENT 


which had given Judith certainty, and the remembrance 
of which now drove Godfrey to that last citadel of his. 
But to Bernadette herself they had seemed small, per- 
ceptible indeed and welcome to her private eye, but so 
subtle, so minute — as mere signs are apt to seem to people 
who have beheld the fulness of the thing signified. She 
did not know herself betrayed, either by her own doing 
or by his. 

Oliver Wyse was expected to arrive about tea time; 
he was bringing his own car, as Bernadette had an- 
nounced that morning at breakfast, not without a mean- 
ing glance at Godfrey — nobody need grudgingly give up 
the car to him this time ! It was about four when Arthur 
again visited the invalid. He found Margaret with her 
father; they were both reading books, for Margaret 
could spell her way through a fairy story by now, and 
they seemed happy and peaceful. When Arthur came in, 
Godfrey laid down his book readily, and received hini 
with something more like his old welcome. In reply to 
inquiries, he admitted that he felt rather better, but added 
that he meant to take no risks. “Tricky things, these 
liver attacks!” Arthur received the impression that he 
would think twice and thrice before he emerged from 
his refuge. He looked yellowish — very likely he had 
fretted himself into some little ailment — ^but there was 
about him an air of relief, almost of resignation. “At all 
events I needn’t see the man when he comes” — so Ar- 
thur imagined Godfrey’s inner feelings, and smiled within 
himself at such weakness, at the mixture of timidity and 
bearishness which turned an unwelcome arrival into a 
real calamity, a thing to be feared and dodged. But there 
it was — old Godfrey’s way, his idiosyncrasy; he was a 
good old fellow really, and one must make the best of it. 

207 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


So for this hour the three were harmonious and con- 
tent together. Timid yet eager questions from Mar- 
garet about fairies and giants and their varying ways, 
about rabbits and guinea-pigs and sundry diversities in 
their habits; from Godfrey a pride and interest in his 
little daughter which Arthur’s easy friendship with her 
made him less shy of displaying ; Arthur’s own ready and 
generous pleasure in encountering no more grumpiness 
— all these things combined to make the hour pleasant. 
It was almost possible to forget Oliver Wyse. 

But presently Margaret’s attendant came to fetch 
her ; she was to have her tea rather early and then change 
her frock — in order to go downstairs and see Sir Oliver ; 
such were mother’s orders. Godfrey’s face relapsed into 
peevishness even while the little girl was kissing him 
good-by. 

^‘Why should she be dragged down to see Wyse?” he 
•demanded, when she was gone. 

^‘Oh, I suppose it’s the usual thing! Their mothers 
like showing them off.” 

“All damned nonsense!” grumbled Godfrey, and took 
tip his book again. But he did not read it. He looked 
at his watch on the table by him. “Half-past four! 
He’ll be here directly.” 

“Oh, well, old chap, does it matter so much ?” 

Arthur had begun, when Godfrey raised himself in his 
bed and held up his hand. 

“There’s a motor horn!” he said. “Listen! Don’t 
you hear?” 

“Yes; I suppose it’s he.” He strolled to the window, 
which looked on the drive. “There is a car coming; I 
suppose it’s his.” 

Godfrey let his hand drop, but sat upright for a few 
208 


THE LAST ENTRENCHMENT 


moments longer, listening. The car passed the window 
and stopped at the door. 

‘‘Yes, it’s Wyse, all right. The car’s open. I saw 
him.” 

So saying, Arthur left the window and sauntered back 
towards the bed, his face adorned with a well-meaning 
smile of common sense and consolation. But Godfrey 
lay down on the pillow again, and with an inarticulate 
grunt turned his face to the wall. Arthur stood looking 
at him in amazement. His smile grew grim — what a 
ridiculous old chap it was ! 

But there was no more to be got out of him just now; 
that was clear enough. No more welcome, no more 
friendly talk! The sulks were back again in full force; 
Godfrey was entrenched in his last citadel. On Arthur 
himself devolved the function of acting as Sir Oliver’s 
host. Feeling no great desire to discharge his duties, he 
lounged slowly down the stairs into the hall ; he was con- 
scious of a distinct touch of Oliveritis. 

The door which led from the hall to Bernadette’s own 
room stood open. They were standing together by the 
window, Bernadette with her back towards Arthur. 
Wyse faced her, and her hand rested lightly on his arm 
— just as it had so often rested on Arthur’s own, in the 
little trick of friendly caress that she had. He ought to 
have known just what — just how much — could properly 
be inferred from it; none the less, he frowned to see it 
now. Then he noticed Oliver Wyse’s face, rising over 
her head — for Oliver was tall — and turned downwards 
towards her. Arthur was in flannels and wore rubber 
shoes ; his feet had made no sound on the carpeted stairs. 
His approach was unnoticed. 

The next minute he was crossing the hall with deter- 
209 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


mined, emphatic, highly audible steps. Slowly, as it 
seemed, Oliver Wyse raised his head, and slowly a smile 
came to his lips as he looked over Bernadette’s head at 
the young man. Then she turned round — very quickly. 
She was smiling, and her eyes were bright. But some- 
thing in Arthur’s face attracted her attention. She 
flushed a little. Her voice was louder than usual, and 
seemed, as it were, hurried when she said: 

“Here’s Sir Oliver, safe and sound, Arthur! He’s 
done it in two hours and twenty minutes.” 

“Not bad going, was it?” asked Oliver, still looking at 
Arthur with that cool, self-confident, urbane smile. He 
was not embarrassed ; rather it seemed as though he were 
defying the intruder to embarrass him, whatever he might 
have seen, whatever he might be pleased to think. 

But Bernadette, his adored, his hopelessly idealized 
Bernadette — ah, the vulgar, the contaminating suspicion 1 
— Bernadette was looking as if she had been caught 1 A 
sudden swift current of feeling ran through him — a new 
feeling which made his blood hot with resentment of 
that confident smile. 

Bernadette’s confusion was but momentary. She was 
quite herself again, serene and at ease, as she said : “Will 
you show him his room? He’d like a wash before tea — 
he’s in the Red Room — over the porch, you know.” 

Arthur entered on his duties as deputy host to the 
urbane and smiling guest. 


CHAPTER XX 


A PRUDENT COUNSELOR 

Arthur escaped from the house as soon as he could, 
leaving Bernadette and Sir Oliver at tea together. He 
could not bear to be with them; he had need to be alone 
with his anger and bewilderment. Perhaps if he were 
alone for a bit he could see things better, get them in a 
true perspective, and make up his mind whether he was 
being a fool now or had been a fool — a sore fool — up 
to now. Which was the truth? Bernadette's confusion, 
if real at all, had been but momentary ; Sir Oliver's cool 
confidence had never wavered. He did not know what 
to think. 

All its old peace and charm enveloped Hilsey that sum- 
mer evening, but they could not calm the ferment of his 
spirit. There was war within him ; the new idea clashed 
so terribly with all the old ones. The image of Berna- 
dette which he had fashioned and set up rocked on its 
pedestal. A substitute began to form itself in his con- 
sciousness, not less fascinating — alas, no ! — ^but very dif- 
ferent. He could not turn his eyes from it now ; it filled 
him with fear and anger. 

He crossed the bridge and the meadows beyond it, 
making for the wood which crowned the hill beyond, 
walking quickly, under an impulse of restlessness, a de- 
sire to get away — though again, the next instant, he 
would be seized with a mad idea of going straight back 
2II 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


and “having it out” with her, with Oliver — with some- 
body ! Shaking it off, he would stride forward again, his 
whole mind enmeshed in pained perplexity. Oh, to know 
the truth! And yet the truth might be fearful, shat- 
tering. 

The bark of a dog, short and sharp, struck on his ears. 
Then: “Patsy, Patsy, come here!” and a laugh. Judith 
was sitting on the trunk of a tree newly cut down, by 
the side of the path. She had a book in her lap ; Patsy 
had been on guard beside her. 

“Where are you rushing to at six miles an hour.^” she 
asked. “You frightened Patsy.” 

He stopped in front of her. “Was I walking quickly? 
I — Pm not going anywhere in particular — just for a 
stroll before dinner.” 

“A stroll!” She laughed again, raising her brows. 
“Sit down for a bit, and then we’ll walk back together. 
You look quite hot.” 

He sat down by her and lit a cigarette. But he did 
not meet her eyes. He sat staring straight before him 
with a frowning face, as he smoked. She made her in- 
spection of him unperceived herself, but she let him 
know the result of it. “You look rather gloomy, Arthur. 
Has anything happened ?” 

“No. Well, except that Oliver Wyse has got here — 
about an hour ago, before tea.” 

“Sir Oliver is much as usual, I suppose ?” 

“I suppose so. I don’t know him very well, you see.” 

“Meeting him doesn’t seem to have had a very cheering 
effect upon you. You look about as jolly as Hamlet.” 

He shook his head impatiently, but made no answer. 
He did look very forlorn. She patted his shoulder. “Oh, 
come, cheer up! Whatever it is, grouching won’t help. 

212 


A PRUDENT COUNSELOR 


We mustn’t have you going to bed too, like Godfrey.” 
She gave him this lead, hoping that he Avould take it. It 
seemed better to her now that he should realize the truth, 
or some of it. 

He turned his face towards her slowly. She looked at 
him with grave eyes, but with a little smile — of protest, 
as it were, against any overdoing of the tragedy. 

“What does the fellow want here ?” he asked in a very 
low voice. 

“All he can get,” she answered brusquely. “That’s my 
opinion, anyhow, though I couldn’t prove it.” 

He did not move. He looked at her still; his eyes 
were heavy with another question. But he dared not put 
it — at least not yet. “Why is he allowed to come here 
then?” he grumbled. 

“Who’s to stop him? Godfrey? From bed?” 

The remembrance of Godfrey turning his face to the 
wall answered her question. But she went on with a 
repressed vehemence: “Do you suppose Godfrey needs 
telling? Well, then, what could I do? And I’m not sure 
I’d do anything if I could. I’ve done my best with this 
family, but it’s pretty hopeless. Things must happen as 
they must, Arthur. And you’ve no right to hold me 
responsible.” 

“I can’t understand it,” he muttered slowly. 

“I thought you would by now — staying in the house.” 

“But she’d never — let him?” His voice sank to a 
whisper. 

“I don’t know. Women do, you know. Why not Ber- 
nadette ?” 

“But she’s not like that, not that sort,” he broke out, 
suddenly angry again. 

She turned rather hard and contemptuous. “Not that 
213 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


sort? She’s a woman, isn’t she? She’s never been like 
that with you — that’s what you really mean.” 

*‘It isn’t!” he declared passionately. “I’ve never — 
never had so much as a thought of anything like that.” 

“I know. You’ve made something superhuman of her. 
Well, Sir Oliver hasn’t.” 

“I won’t believe it of her !” 

The burden of grief and desolation in his voice made 
Judith gentle and tender again. “Oh, I know you won’t, 
my dear,” she said, “unless you absolutely have to, abso- 
lutely must.” She got up and whistled to recall her dog, 
which had strayed into the wood. “I must go back, or I 
shall be late for dinner. Are you coming, Arthur ?” 

“Oh, there’s plenty of time! I must think what to 
do.” 

She turned away with a shrug of her shoulders. What 
could he do? What could anybody? Things must hap- 
pen as they would — for good or evil, as they would. 

Things were likely to happen now, and that quickly. 
At the very moment when Arthur came upon them in 
Bernadette’s room, Oliver had been telling her of his 
completed plan. The yacht would be round to South- 
ampton by the following Tuesday. They would motor 
over — it was within a drive of moderate length from 
Hilsey — go on board, and set sail over summer seas. She 
had turned from that vision to meet Arthur’s startled 
eyes ; hence her momentary confusion. But she was over 
it now. While they drank their tea, Oliver well-nigh 
persuaded her that it had never existed — never at least 
been visible. And besides — “What does it matter what 
he thinks ?” Oliver urged. 

To this Bernadette would not quite agree. “I don’t 
want him to — to have any idea of it till — till the time 
214 


A PRUDENT COUNSELOR 


comes/’ she said fretfully. “I don’t want anybody to 
have any idea till then — least of all Arthur.” 

“Well, it’s not for long, and we’ll be very careful,” he 
said, with a laugh. 

“Yes; you promised me that when I let you come back 
here,” she reminded him eagerly. 

“I know. I’ll keep my word.” He looked into her 
eyes as he repeated : “It’s not for long.” 

If Oliver Wyse had not inspired her with a great pas- 
sion — a thing that no man perhaps could create from 
what there was to work on in her soul — he had achieved 
an almost complete domination over her. He had made 
his standards hers, his judgments the rule and measure 
of her actions and thoughts. She saw through his eyes, 
and gave to things and people much the dimensions that 
he did, the importance or the unimportance. At his bid- 
ding she turned her back on her old life and looked for- 
ward — forward only. But to one thing she clung te- 
naciously. She had made up her mind to the crash and 
upheaval at Hilsey, but she had no idea of its happening 
while she was there ; she meant to give — to risk giving — 
no occasion for that. Her ears should not hear nor her 
eyes see the fall of the structure. No sight of it, scarce- 
ly a rumbling echo, need reach her as she sailed the 
summer seas. Oliver himself had insisted on the great 
plunge, the great break ; so much benefit she was entitled 
to get out of it. 

“And be specially careful about Arthur,” she urged. 
“Not even the slightest risk another time !” 

“Confound Arthur !” he laughed good-humoredly. 
* Why does that boy matter so much ?” 

“Oh, he thinks such a lot of me, you know ! And I am 
very fond of him. We’ve been awfully good friends, 

215 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Oliver. At all events he does appreciate me.” This was 
why she felt tender about Arthur, and was more sorry 
for him than for the others who were to suffer by what 
she did. She had not been enough to the others — neither 
to her husband nor to Margaret — ^but to Arthur she knew 
that she had been and was a great deal. Besides, she 
could not possibly get up any case against Arthur, what- 
ever plausible complaints she might have about the others, 
on the score of coldness, or indifference, or incompatibil- 
ity, or sulks. 

^Tn Arthur’s presence I’ll be as prim as a monk,” 
Oliver promised her, laughing again, as she left him be- 
fore dinner. 

He strolled out onto the lawn, to smoke a cigarette 
before going to dress, and there met Judith Arden on her 
return from the wood. 

'‘Back again. Sir Oliver!” she said, shaking hands. 

“As you see. I hope you’re not tired of me ? It’s only 
to be a short stay, anyhow.” 

The two were on a well-established footing, chosen by 
Judith, acquiesced in by Sir Oliver. He was pretty sure 
that she knew what he was about, but thought she could 
cause him no hindrance, even if she wished. She treated 
him with a cool irony that practically indorsed his opin- 
ion on both points. . 

“If you’re anxious to be told that we’re all glad to see 
you. I’ll give you the formal assurance. I’m sorry my 
uncle is not well enough to welcome you himself.” 

“Oh, I hope he’ll be up and about to-morrow. Mrs. 
Lisle tells me it’s nothing serious.” 

“She ought to know. Sir Oliver, being his wife.” 

“The party has received an addition since I was here, 
I see.” 


216 


A PRUDENT COUNSELOR 


“Yes. Some company for us when you and Berna- 
dette go out motoring !” 

“Do you think that the addition will be willing to fall 
in with that — well, that grouping?” 

“Now I come to think of it, perhaps not. But there — 
you always get your own way, don’t you?” 

“If that flattery were only sincere, it would be sweet 
to my ears, Miss Judith.” 

“It’s sincere enough. I didn’t mean it as flattery. I 
spoke rather in a spirit of resignation.” 

“The same spirit will animate our friend perhaps — the 
addition, I mean.” 

“It may ; it’s rather in the air at Hilsey. But he mayn’t 
have been here long enough to catch it. I rather think 
he hasn’t.” 

“You invest the position with exciting possibilities. 
Unless I fight hard, I may be done out of my motor 
rides !” 

“That would leave me calm,” she flung at him over her 
shoulder, as she went into the house. 

He walked up and down a little longer, smiling to him- 
self, well content. The prospect of the summer seas was 
before his eyes too. He had counted the cost of the 
voyage, and set it down at six months’ decorous retire- 
ment — enough to let people who felt that they must be 
shocked be shocked at sufficient leisure. After that, he 
had no fear of not being able to take his place in the 
world again. Nor need Bernadette fear any extreme 
cold-shouldering from her friends. It was a case in 
which everybody would be ready to make excuses, to find 
the thing more or less pardonable. Why, one had only 
to tell the story of how, on the eve of the crisis, the 
threatened husband took to his bed ! 

15 217 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


As Arthur watched Bernadette at dinner— serene, 
gracious, and affectionate — wary too, by reason of that 
tiny slip — his suspicions seemed to his reason again in- 
credible. Judith must be wrong, and he himself wrong 
also. And her friend, Sir Oliver — so composed, so ur- 
bane, so full of interesting talk about odd parts of the 
world that he had seen and the strange things which had 
befallen him! Surely people who were doing or con- 
templating what they were suspected of could not be- 
have like that ? That must be beyond human nature ? He 
and Judith must be wrong! But there was something 
within him which refused the comforting conclusion. Not 
the old adoration which could see no flaw in her and 
endure no slur on her perfection. His adoration was 
eager for the conclusion, and pressed him towards it with 
all the force of habit and preconception. It was that 
other, that new current of feeling which had rushed 
through him when he stood in the hall and saw them 
framed, as it were, by the doorway of her room — a pic- 
ture of lovers, whispered the new feeling, sparing his 
recollection no detail of pose or air or look. And lovers 
are very cunning, urged the new feeling, that compound 
of anger and fear — the fear of another’s taking what a 
man’s desire claims for himself. He had honestly pro- 
tested to Judith that his adoration had been honest, pure, 
and without self-regard. So it had, while no one shared 
or threatened it. But now — how much of his anger, how 
much of his fear, came from loyalty to Godfrey, sorrow 
for Margaret, sorrow for Bernadette herself, grief for 
his own broken idol, if this thing were true ? These were 
good reasons and motives for fear and anger; orthodox 
and sound enough. But they had not the quality of 
what he felt — the heat, the glow, the intense sense of 
218 


A PRUDENT COUNSELOR 


rivalry which now possessed him, the piercing vigilance 
with which he watched their every word and look and 
gesture. These other reasons and motives but served to 
aid — really was it more than to mask? — the change, the 
transmutation, that had set in at such a pace. Under the 
threat of rivalry, the generous impulse to protect became 
hatred of another's mastery, devotion took on the heat 
of passion, and jealousy lent the vision of its hundred 
eyes. 

But Bernadette too was watchful and wary; her posi- 
tion gave her an added quickness of perception. Oliver’s 
contemptuous self-confidence might notice nothing, but, 
as she watched the other two, the effect of his persuasions 
wore off ; she became vaguely sensible of an atmosphere 
of suspicion around her. She felt herself under observa- 
tion: curious and intense from Arthur; from Judith 
half scornful, half amused. And Judith seemed to keep 
an eye on Arthur too — rather as if she were expecting, 
or fearing, or waiting for, something from him. Berna- 
dette grew impatient and weary under this sense of scru- 
tiny. Surely it was something new in Arthur? And 
was not Judith in some way privy to it? 

‘What are the plans for to-morrow ?” asked Sir Oliver, 
as he sipped his glass of port. “Can we go motoring? 
I’ve brought my car, you know, in case yours is wanted.” 

“Well, we might take them both, and all go somewhere 
— Margaret tool” A family party seemed now an ex- 
cellently prudent and unsuspicious thing. “Oh, but I 
forgot; there’s a great cricket match — Hilsey against 
Marling! I ought to put in an appearance sometime, 
and I expect you’re wanted to play, aren’t you, Arthur ?” 

“I believe I did tell Beard I’d play if I was wanted. 
I’d forgotten about it.” 


219 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


^‘Have you made up your mind about going to London 
to-morrow?’’ asked Judith. 

Bernadette pricked up her ears — in pure metaphor, 
though; she was too alert to let any outward sign of 
interest appear. Yet it now seemed to her very desirable 
that Arthur should go to London — for a few days, any- 
how. The quick look of surprise with which he met 
Judith’s question did nothing to lessen this feeling. 

He had forgotten all about going to London next day ! 
The plight of the farce, the possible briefs — Joe Halli- 
day’s appeal, and the renewed inquiry from Wills and 
Mayne, so flattering to professional hopes — where were 
they? Where were the snows of yesteryear? They had 
gone clean out of his head, out of his life again. They 
had become unimportant, irrelevant. Again, for the mo- 
ment, Hilsey closed around him on every side. 

He did not answer Judith for a moment. “You know 
you told me you thought you might have to,” she said, 
“for a little while, anyhow, on some business.” 

“Oh, yes, I know. But ” 

“What business, Arthur?” Bernadette asked. “Briefs? 
How exciting!” 

“Oh, nothing in particular I” 

“Nonsense! I want to hear. I’m interested. I want 
to know all about it.” 

He could not tell her with his old pleasure, his old de- 
light at any interest she might be gracious enough to show 
in his affairs; but neither could he refuse to tell. That 
would be a bit of useless sulking — after Godfrey’s fash- 
ion. Besides, perhaps they were wrong — he and Judith. 
So he told her about Wills and Mayne’s flattering if abor- 
tive inquiry, and how Mr. Claud Beverley and Mr. Lang- 
ley Etheringham were at loggerheads over the farce. 

220 


A PRUDENT COUNSELOR 


Sir Oliver, now at his cigar, listened benevolently. Ber- 
nadette fastened on the latter topic; it interested her 
more — she thought it probably interested Arthur more 
also. ^‘That really is rather important, now ! It’s sort of 
referred to you, to your decision, isn’t it? And it’s aw- 
fully important, isn’t it. Sir Oliver? Perhaps you don’t 
know, though — Arthur’s put a lot of money in the piece.” 

''Then I certainly think he’d better run up and look 
after it,” smiled Sir Oliver. "I should.” 

"I don’t think I shall go. I expect the thing can wait ; 
things generally can.” 

"I don’t think you’re being very wise. Cousin Arthur,’^ 
Bernadette said gently. "We shall be sorry to lose you; 
but if it’s only for a little while, and Mr. Halliday makes 
such a point of it !” 

"Joe always exaggerates things.” 

"I like having you here — well, I needn’t tell you that — 
but not if I have to feel that we’re interfering with your 
work or your prospects.” 

Here Jealousy had a private word for Arthur’s ear. 
"That sounds well, very nice and proper ! But rather a 
new solicitude, isn’t it? Much she used to care about 
your work !” 

"After all, what do I know about the third acts of 
farces ?” 

"I expect that’s just why they want you — in a way. 
You’ll be like one of the public. They want to know how 
it strikes one of the public. Don’t you think that’s it, 
Sir Oliver?” 

Sir Oliver thought so — but Jealousy was mean enough 
to suggest that the lady was more ingenious than con- 
vincing. 

"Don’t you think he ought to go, Judith?” 

221 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


The ironic comedy of this conversation (started, too, 
by herself, in all innocence, purely d propos of the village 
cricket match!) between the prudent counselor and the 
idle apprentice was entirely to Judith’s humor. They 
argued their false point so plausibly. The farce had 
been a great thing to him, and would be again, it was to 
be hoped. And to Bernadette, for his sake, it had been 
‘‘exciting” and possibly — just possibly — would be again. 
But it was not the fate of the farce that concerned either 
of them now. They could not humbug her in that fash- 
ion ! Her smile was mocking as she answered : “Yes, I 
think he’d better go, Bernadette. I’m sure you’re ad- 
vising him for his own good.” 

Bernadette gave her a quick glance, bit her lip, and 
rose from the table. “We’ll have coffee in the drawing- 
room. Bring your cigar. Sir Oliver.” 

Sir Oliver was smiling too; that girl Judith amused 
him ; he appreciated the dexterous little stabs of her two- 
edged dagger. 

But Arthur was listening to another whisper in his 
ear; “Very anxious to get you away, isn’t she? Curi- 
ously anxious !” 

When Bernadette gave him his cup of coffee, she said 
in a low voice: “Don’t be foolish, Arthur. I really 
think you ought to go.” 

He looked her full in the eyes, and answered : “I see 
you want me to, at all events.” 

Those whispers in his ear had done their work. He 
turned abruptly away from her, not seeing the sudden 
fear in her eyes. His voice had been full of passionate 
resentment. 


CHAPTER XXI 


IDOL AND DEVOTEE 

After drinking his coffee quickly — with no word to 
anyone the while — Arthur had gone out of the room. 
Judith took up her book, Oliver Wyse was glancing at 
the City article in a weekly paper, Bernadette sat quiet 
in her high-backed armchair, looking very slight and 
young in her white evening frock, but wearing a tired 
and fretful expression. Just what she had planned to 
avoid, just what she hated, was happening or threatening 
to happen. She felt herself in an atmosphere of suspi- 
cion ; she was confronted by accusers ; she was made to 
witness her handiwork; the sight and the sound of the 
shattered edifice menaced her eyes and ears. 

Glancing at her over his paper, Oliver saw that she 
was moody. He came and tried to draw her into talk. 
She received him coldly, almost peevishly. He had the 
tact not to press his company on her. ^T think, if you’ll 
excuse me, Fll go and polish off some letters. Then I 
shall be quite free for to-morrow,” he said. 

"‘Oh, yes, do, of course!” she answered, with what 
seemed relief. She was angry now with him for hav- 
ing come back to Hilsey, and with herself for having let 
him. ''Will you go to the library?” 

"You’ve given me such a delightfully comfortable room 
that I’ll write there, I think.” 

"As you like, and — I’m very tired — perhaps we’d bet- 
ter §ay good night.” 


223 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


He smiled and pressed her hand gently. “Very well, 
good night.” She gave him a glance, half penitent for 
her crossness, but let him go without more. Judith ac- 
corded him a curt “Good night” without raising her head 
from her book. She was reading with wonderful in- 
dustry; absorbed in the book! Bernadette interpreted 
this as a sign of disapproval — it was more probably a 
demonstration of non-responsibility for the ways of fate 
— but it was not Judith’s disapproval that particularly 
engaged her thoughts. They were obstinately set on 
Arthur. How and what — how much — had he found out ? 
Enough to make him resolved not to go to London, any- 
how, it seemed ! Enough to make him spring with swift 
suspicion to the conclusion that she wanted him to go 
for her own purposes! And yet she had been wary — 
and quite plausibly sage and prudent in her counsel. 

“Where’s Arthur?” she asked. “He’s disappeared.” 

“I don’t know where he is,” answered Judith from 
behind her book. 

But he was more than suspicious. He was very angry. 
His last brusque speech showed that, and still more the 
note in his voice, a note which she had never heard be- 
fore. It was of more than indignation; it was of out- 
rage. She could manage the others. Margaret presented 
no difficulty, the sulky helpless husband hardly more; 
from Judith there was to be feared nothing worse than 
satiric stabs. But if Arthur were going to be like this, 
the next three days would be very difficult — and horribly 
distasteful. He had touched her as well as alarmed her. 
Such an end to her affectionate intimacy with him was a 
worse wound than she had reckoned on its being. To 
see him angry with her hurt her ; she had never meant to 
see it, and she was not prepared for the intensity of feel- 
224 


IDOL AND DEVOTEE 


ing which had found vent in his voice. It had been as 
bad as a blow, that speech of his ; while showing him sore 
stricken, it had meant to strike her also. She had never 
thought that he would want to do that. Tender regrets, 
propitiating memories, an excusing and attenuating fond- 
ness — these were what she desired to be able to attribute 
to Arthur when she was sailing on the summer seas. 

'T wonder what’s become of him ! Do you think he’s 
gone out, Judith?” 

At last Judith closed her book and raised her head. 
^‘Why do you want Arthur now ?” 

“I only wondered what could have become of him.” 

“Perhaps he’s gone to pack — ready for to-morrow, 
you know.” 

“Oh, nonsense ! Barber would pack for him, of course 
— if he’s going.” 

Judith, book in hand, rose from her chair. “I think I 
shall go to bed.” She came across the room to where 
Bernadette sat. “You’d better too. You look tired.” 

“No ; I’m not sleepy. I’m sure I couldn’t sleep.” 

Judith bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. 
“Never mind Arthur. You’d better let him alone to- 
night.” 

Bernadette longed to ask, “What have you said to 
him?” But she would not; she shrank from bringing 
the matter into the open like that. It would mean a scene, 
she thought, and scenes she was steadfastly purposed to 
avoid — if possible. 

“Well/ he’s behaving rather queerly, going off like 
this,” she murmured peevishly. 

For an instant Judith stood looking at her with a smile 
in which pity and derision seemed oddly mingled ; then 
she turned on her heel and went out. 

225 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Bernadette sat on alone in the big drawing-room. It 
was very silent and solitary. The chill fancies of night 
and loneliness assailed her. Surely nobody would do 
anything foolish because of — well, because of what she 
did? She rejected the idea as absurd. But she felt un- 
comfortable and desolate. She might send for Sir Oli- 
ver; no doubt he was at his letters still, and it was not 
really late. But somehow she did not want him ; she was 
not in the mood. Her mind was obstinate still, and still 
asked obstinately of Arthur. 

At last she got up, went through the hall, and out on to 
the terrace. She looked up and down the length of it. 
The night was fine and the moon shone, but she saw no 
sign of him. She called his name softly; there was no 
reply. Either he had gone farther afield, or he was in the 
house. She paused a moment, and then took her way 
along the corridor which led past the dining-room to the 
smoking-room — an apartment seldom used in these lax 
days, when every room is a smoking-room, and rather 
remote. Perhaps he had retreated there. She stood for 
a moment outside the door, hesitating at the last whether 
to seek him out. But some impulse in her — friendliness, 
remorse, fear, curiosity, all had their share in it — drove 
her on. Very softly she turned the handle and opened 
the door. 

Yes, he was there! He was sitting in a chair by the 
table. His arms were spread on the table, the hands 
meeting one another, and his head rested on his hands. 
He did not hear the door she opened so gently. He 
looked as if he were asleep. Then, softly still, she closed 
the door, standing close by it. This time he heard the 
noise, slight as it was, and lifted his face from his hands. 
When he saw her, he slowly raised himself till he sat 
226 


IDOL AND DEVOTEE 


straight in his chair. She advanced towards him timidly, 
with a deprecatory smile. 

In disuse the room had grown dreary, as rooms do; 
the furniture showed a housemaid’s stiff ideas of ar- 
rangement ; there was no human untidiness ; even the air 
was rather musty. 

‘‘Oh, you don’t look very cheerful in here ! Have you 
been asleep, Arthur?” She sat herself sideways on the 
heavy mahogany writing table. 

He shook his head ; his eyes looked very tired. 

“I couldn’t think what had become of you. And I 
wanted to say good night. We’re — we’re friends, aren’t 
we. Cousin Arthur?” 

“Where’s Oliver Wyse ?” he asked brusquely. 

“Upstairs in his room — writing letters. He went al- 
most as soon as you did — but more politely !” Her smile 
made the reproof an overture to friendship. 

“I hate to see the fellow with you!” he broke out 
fiercely, but in a low voice. 

“Oh, you mustn’t say things like that I What nonsense 
have you got into your head? Sir Oliver’s just a friend 
— as you are. Not the same quite, because you’re a rela- 
tion too. But still just a very good friend, as you are. 
Is this all because I told you you ought not to neglect 
your work?” 

“Why are you so anxious for me to clear out ?” 

“If you take it like that, I can’t — well, we can’t talk. 
I must just leave you alone.” She got down from the 
table and stood by it, ready, as it seemed, to carry out 
her threat of going. 

“I’ll go to London — if you’ll tell Oliver Wyse to come 
with me.” 

“He’s only just come, poor man — and only for a few 
227 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


days, anyhow! I think you’ve gone mad. Who’s been 
putting such things in your head? Is it — Godfrey?” 

“You wouldn’t be surprised if it was, would you?” he 
asked quickly. 

“Yes, I should, though Godfrey is sometimes very ab- 
surd with his fancies. I don’t want to quarrel, but you 
really mustn’t grudge my having another friend. It’s not 
reasonable. And if Sir Oliver does admire me a little — 
well, is that so surprising?” She smiled coaxingly, very 
anxious to make friends to-night, to part friends on the 
morrow. “After all, aren’t you a little guilty in that way 
yourself. Cousin Arthur?” 

“Not in the same ” he began, but broke off, frown- 

ing and fretful. 

“I’ve spoiled you, but I never promised you a mono- 
poly. Now be good and sensible, do I Forget all this 
nonsense; go and do your work, and come back next 
week.” 

He made no reply to her appeal ; he sat looking at her 
with a hostile scrutiny. 

“Anyhow, you can’t stay if you’re going on behaving 
like this. It’s intolerable.” 

“I came here on Godfrey’s invitation. If Godfrey asks 
me to go ” 

“If you appeal to Godfrey, you’re not a friend of 
mine!” she cried hotly. 

“Impossible to be a friend both of yours and of God- 
frey’s, is it?” he sneered. 

Her face flushed; now she was very angry. “Go or 
stay — anyhow I’ve done with you!” She half turned 
away, yet waited a moment still, hoping that his mood 
would soften. 

He leant forward towards her in entreaty. “Don’t do 
228 


IDOL AND DEVOTEE 


it, Bernadette, for God’s sake ! For your own sake, for 
the sake of all of us who love you 1” 

^Who loves me in this house?” she asked sharply and 
scornfully. “Am I so much to any of them? What am 
I to Godfrey, for instance? Does Godfrey love me?” 
She was glad to give utterance to her great excuse. 

But his mind was not on excuses or palliation; they 
belonged to his old feelings about her, and it was the new 
feeling which governed him now. He stretched out his 
arm, caught one of her hands, and drew her towards him 
almost roughly. 

“I love you, Bernadette, I love you body and soul; I 
worship you !” 

“Arthur!” she cried, in amazement, shrinking, trying 
to draw back. 

“When I see that man with you, and know what he 

wants, and suspect It drives me mad; I can’t bear 

it! Oh, it’s all damnable of me, I know! I could have 
gone on all right as we were, and been happy, but for 

this. But now, when I think of him, I ” With a 

shiver he let go her hand and buried his face in his own 
again. His shoulders shook as though with a sob, but 
no sound came. 

She drew near to him now of her own accord, came 
and stood just beside him, laying her hand gently on his 
shoulder, “Cousin Arthur, Cousin Arthur!” she whis- 
pered. All her anger was gone; sorrow for him swal- 
lowed it up. “You’re making a mistake, you know; you 
are, really. You don’t love me — not like that. You 
never did. You never felt ” 

He raised his head. “What’s the use of talking about 
what I did do or did feel? I know all that. It’s what I 
do feel that’s the question — what I feel now !” 

229 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Oh, but you can’t have changed in four or five 
hours,” she pleaded gently, yet with a little smile. 
“That’s absurd. You’re mistaken about yourself. 
It’s just that you’re angry about Oliver — angry and jeal- 
ous. And that makes you think you love me. But 
you never would! To begin with, you’re too loyal, 

too honest, too fond of Oh, you’d never do 

it!” 

“I have never thought of you as — in that way. But 
when I saw him, he made me do it. And then — ^yes, all 
of a sudden ” He turned his eyes up to her, but im- 

ploring mercy rather than favor. 

She pressed his shoulder affectionately. “Yes, I sup- 
pose it’s possible — it might be like that with a man,” she 
said. “I suppose it might. I never thought of it. But 
only just for a moment. Cousin Arthur! It’s not real 
with you. You’ll get over it directly; you’ll forget it, and 
think of me in the old pleasant way you used, as being” — 
with another little squeeze on his shoulder, she laughed 
low — “Oh, all the wonderful things I know you thought 
me!” She suddenly recollected how she stood. She 
drew in her breath sharply, with a sound almost like a 
sob. “Ah, no, you can never think like that of me again, 
can you ?” 

He was silent for a moment, not looking up at her now, 
but straight in front of him. 

“Then — it’s true?” he asked. 

With a forlorn shake of her head she answered : “Yes, 
it’s true. Since you’re like this, I can’t keep it up any 
longer. It’s all true. Oliver loves me, and I love him, 
and all you suspected is — well, is going to be true about 
us.” 

“If you’ll only drop that, I swear I’ll never breathe a 
230 


IDOL AND DEVOTEE 


word about — about myself ! I will forget ! I’ll go away 

till I have forgotten. I’ll ” 

*‘Oh, poor boy, I know you would ! I should absolutely 
trust you. But how am I to — drop that?” She smiled 
ruefully. ^'It’s become just my life.” She suddenly 
lifted her hands above her head and cried in a low but 
passionate voice : ‘‘Oh, I can’t bear this ! It’s terrible ! 
Don’t be so miserable, dear Arthur ! I can’t bear to see 
you!” She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. 
“You who’ve been such a dear, dear friend and comrade 
to me — ^you who could have made me go on enduring it 
all here, if anybody could I But Oliver came — and look 
what he’s done to both of us 1” 

“You love him?” 

“Oh, yes, yes, yes ! Or how could all this be happen- 
ing? You must believe that. I didn’t want you to know 
it — yes, you were right, I was trying to get you out of 
the way ; I wasn’t honest. But since things have turned 
out like this, you must believe now, indeed you must.” 

For a full minute he sat silent and motionless. Then 
he reached up, took her hand, and kissed it three — four 
times. “God help me I Well, I’ll go to London to-mor- 
row. I can’t face him — or Godfrey. I should let it all 
out in a minute. I can’t think how you manage !” 

To her too it looked very difficult to manage now. 
The revelation made to Arthur seemed somehow to ex- 
tend to the whole household. She felt that everyone 
would be watching and pointing, even though Arthur 
himself went away. She had grown fearful of being 
found out — how quickly Arthur had found her out ! — and 
dreaded her husband’s surly questions. More scenes 
might come — more scenes not to be endured ! A sudden 
resolve formed itself in her mind, born of her fears of 
231 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


more detection, of more scenes, of more falling into dis- 
grace. 

'‘I expect Barber will have gone to bed — it’s past 
eleven,” she said. “But you can give him your orders in 
the morning. And — and I shan’t see you. Be happy, 
dear Cousin Arthur, and. Oh, splendidly successful! I’m 
sure you will I And now go to bed and sleep, poor tired 
boy !” 

“Oh, I can’t sleep — not yet. This is good-by?” His 
voice choked on the word a little. He turned his chair 
round, and she gave her hands into his. 

“Yes, this must be good-by — for the present, at all 
events. Perhaps some day, when all this is an old story, 
if you wish it ” 

“Are you going away with him, or ?” 

“Oh, going away! I must do that. You do see that, 
don’t you? And Oliver wouldn’t have anything else. Try 
to think kindly and — and pleasantly of me. Remember 
our good times, dear Arthur, not this — this awful even- 
ing!” 

“I’ve been such 'a fool — and now such a blackguard ! 
Because now if I could, I’d ” 

“Hush, hush! Don’t say things like that. They’re 
not really true, and they make you feel worse. We’re 
just dear old friends parting for a while, because we 
must.” 

“Perhaps I shall never see you again, Bernadette — 
and you’ve been pretty nearly everything in my life since 
we’ve known one another.” 

“Dear Arthur, you must let me go now. I can’t bear 
any more of it. Oh, I am so desperately sorry, Arthur !” 
A tear rolled down her cheek. 

“Never mind, Bernadette. It’ll be all right about me. 

232 


IDOL AND DEVOTEE 


And — well, I can’t talk about you, but you needn’t be 
afraid of my thinking anything — anything unkind. Good- 
by.” 

She drew her hands away, and he relinquished his 
hold on them without resistance. There was no more to 
be said — no more to be done. She stood where she was 
for a moment; he turned his chair round to the table 
again, spread out his arms, and laid his face on his hands. 
Just the same attitude in which she had found him! 
But she knew that his distress was deeper. Despair and 
forlornness succeeded to anger and fear ; and, on the top 
of them, the poor boy accused himself of disloyalty to his 
house, to his cousin, to herself. He saw himself a black- 
guard as well as a fool. 

She could not help speaking to him once again. “God 
bless you. Cousin Arthur !” she said very softly. But he 
did not move; he gave no sign of hearing her. She 
turned and went very quietly out of the room, leaving 
her poor pet in sad plight, her poor toy broken, behind 
her. 

It was more than she had bargained for, more than she 
could bear ! Silently and cautiously, but with swift and 
resolute steps, she passed along the corridor to the hall, 
and mounted the stairs. She was bent on shutting out 
the vision of Arthur from her sight. 


16 


CHAPTER XXII 


PRESSING BUSINESS 

Oliver Wyse had finished his letters and was smoking 
a last cigar before turning in. Barber had brought him 
whisky and soda water, and wished him good night, add- 
ing that, in case Sir Oliver should want anything in the 
night, he had put Wigram, his chauffeur, who acted as 
valet also when his master was on a visit, in the small 
room next the bathroom which Sir Oliver was to use. 
“He said he liked to be within hail of you, Sir Oliver.'' 

“Wigram's been with me in a lot of queer places, Bar- 
ber. He's got into the habit of expecting midnight 
alarms. In fact, he was a sort of bodyguard to begin 
with; then a valet; now he's mainly a chauffeur — a 
very handy fellow! Well, thank you. Barber. Good 
night." 

The cigar was pleasant; so was the whisky-and-soda ; 
he felt drowsily content. The situation caused no dis- 
turbance either in his nerves or in his conscience. He 
was accustomed to critical positions and rather liked 
them; to break or to observe rules and conventions was 
entirely a question of expediency, to be settled as each 
case arose — and this case was now abundantly settled. 
The only real danger had lain in Bernadette herself ; and 
she showed no sign of wavering. He had enjoyed the 
comedy of her wise counsel to Arthur, though for his 
own part he cared little whether the boy went or stayed ; 

234 


PRESSING BUSINESS 


if need be, it could not be difficult to put him in his 
place. 

A low light knock came on his door. A little sur- 
prised, but fancying it must be the devoted Wigram 
come to have a last look at him, he called : ^‘Come in V* 
Bernadette darted in and shut the door noiselessly. She 
held up a finger, enjoining silence, and walked quickly 
across the room. 

He threw his cigar into the grate, and advanced to 
meet her, smiling. '^I say — is this your ‘tremendous cau- 
tion’?’' But then he perceived the excitement under 
which she labored. “What’s the matter ? Anything gone 
wrong ?” 

“Yes; Arthur! He’s found out! And I — somehow I 
couldn’t deny it to him.” 

He smiled at her kindly and tolerantly, yet with a 
gentle reproof. Her courage was failing her again, it 
seemed. It was a good thing that he had come back to 
Hilsey — to keep her up to the scratch. 

“Well? Did he turn nasty? Never mind. I’ll quiet 
him. Where is he?” 

“No, no, please don’t go near him! He’s not nasty; 
he’s all broken up. Oliver, he says he’s in love with me 
himself.” 

He smiled at that. “Coming on, the young cousin, 
isn’t he ? But I’m not much surprised, Bernadette.” 

“He — he’s upset me dreadfully. I didn’t mean it to 
happen like this. It’s too much for me. My nerves ” 

She spoke all the time in quick agitated whispers. Oli- 
ver walked to the door, turned the key, and came back 
to her. He took one of her hands in his. She looked 
up at him with tears in her eyes. “He has been such a 
friend, really. He trusted me so !” 

235 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Well, I suppose he’ll take your advice now — ^your 
wise advice — and pack himself off to-morrow morning. 
Breakfast in bed, and you needn’t see him.” 

“Judith will guess — I know she will. Oliver, I — I 
can’t keep it up, with you here — not even though Arthur 
goes. I’m afraid of Judith now — even of Godfrey!” 

“I’m certainly not going to leave you here, up against 
it, all by yourself.” She was not to be trusted alone 
now. She had been shown too vividly the side of the 
shield which it was his task to hide from her eyes — a task 
to which he alone was equal. Left to herself, she might 
go back on the whole thing, very likely! 

“Take me away from it all now, won’t you?” she 
asked. 

“What? Now — to-night?” His eyes lit up humor- 
ously. “Sharp work, isn’t it? Rather difficult to get 
out of the house to-night without risking — well, encoun- 
ters ! And you wouldn’t like that.” 

“Can’t you think of anything? I can’t stand these 
next few days.” 

He considered a moment, marshaling plans in his 
quick-moving mind. “Look here, can you be sure of 
waking up early in the morning?” 

“I wish I could be half as sure of going to sleep at 
all!” 

“Well, get up at half-past five — ^your servants won’t be 
about then? — pack what you want in a bag, leave it just 
inside your room, put on your things, and meet me out- 
side the hall door just before six. We’ll go for a walk!” 

“But the station? It’s nearly three miles off! And 
there are no trains ” 

“Wait, wait! My man will fetch your bag — just a 
little risk there, not much at that hour — hang my motor 
236 


PRESSING BUSINESS 


coat over it, so that nobody can see it isn’t mine, and take 
it round to the garage with my traps. I suppose the 
car’ll be locked up, and he’ll have to get the key from 
somebody. He’ll say that I’m suddenly called away, that 
I’ve walked on ahead, and he’s to pick me up at the east 
lodge. If you’re seen, you’re just putting me on my 
way, don’t you see ? He’ll give your fellow at the garage 
a sovereign, and he won’t be too curious !” 

‘‘Yes, yes, I see !” she whispered eagerly. 

“Starting then, we can be in town in lots of time to 
catch the afternoon train to Boulogne. I’ll wire the yacht 
to meet us somewhere else, instead of Southampton. 
Ostend, perhaps — that’d do all right. Now how does 
that suit you ?” 

Her eyes sparkled again. “Why, it’s splendid !” How 
difficulties seemed to vanish under his sure decisive 
touch ! It was by this gift, more than any other, that he 
had won and held her. 

“I’ve managed trickier businesses than this. It’s all 
perfectly easy, and with luck you won’t be exposed to 
meeting any of them again.” 

“Thank heaven!” she murmured. 

“But you’d better not stay here now. One can never 
be sure somebody won’t come nosing about.” He kissed 
her lightly. “Go — be quick I — to your room. I’ll go and 
wake up Wigram now, and tell him what I want; you 
needn’t bother about him — he’s absolutely reliable. Come 
along.” He drew her across the room with him, un- 
locked the door, and opened it. “Don’t make a noise! 
Just before six, in the porch, remember !” 

She nodded in silence and glided quickly along the 
passage, which was dimly lighted by a single oil lamp; 
Godfrey would not hear of installing modern illuminants 

237 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


at Hilsey. He gave her time to get to her room, and then 
himself went in the other direction along the corridor, 
and knocked on the door of the little room where the 
faithful and reliable Wigram slept. 

He was soon back — it did not take long to make Wig- 
ram understand what was wanted of him — -and sat down 
again at his writing table. Some of the letters had to be 
rewritten, for he had dated them from Hilsey, and that 
would not do now. He was smiling in a half impatient 
amusement over women and their whims. They were so 
prone to expect to get all they wanted without paying the 
necessary price, without the little drawbacks which could 
not be avoided. After all, a woman couldn’t reasonably 
expect to run away without causing a bit of a rumpus, 
and some little distress to somebody! It was very sel- 
dom in this world that either man or woman could get 
all they wanted without putting somebody else’s nose out 
of joint; if only that were honestly acknowledged, there 
would be a great deal less cant talked. 

He raised his head from his work and paused, with his 
cigar halfway to his mouth, to listen a moment to a slow 
heavy tread which came along the passage from the top 
of the stairs and stopped at a door on the opposite side, 
nearer to the stairs. Arthur Lisle coming to bed — he 
had indicated his own room in passing, when he was play- 
ing deputy host and showing Oliver his quarters. A 
good thing he hadn’t come up a little sooner I He might 
have met Bernadette coming out of a room which it was 
by no means the proper thing for her to have been in. 
Another painful encounter that would have been 1 Again 
his tolerant smile came; he was really a good-natured 
man ; he liked Arthur and was sorry for him, even while 
he was amused. To-night the world was probably seem- 
238 


PRESSING BUSINESS 


ing quite at an end to that young fellow — that young 
fool of a fellow. Whereas, in fact, he was just at the 
beginning of all this sort of business ! 

“I suppose he wants my blood,” he reflected. ‘‘That’d 
make him feel a lot better. But he can’t have it. I’m 
afraid he can’t, really!” 

Well, Arthur’s was one of the sound and primitive 
reasons for wanting a man’s blood; nothing to quarrel 
with there! Only the thing would not last, of course. 
Quite soon it would all be a memory, a bit of experience. 
At least, that would be so if the boy were — or managed 
to grow into, to let life shape him into — a sensible fellow. 
Many men went on being fools about women to the end. 
*'Well, I suppose some people would say that I’m being 
a fool now,” he added candidly. “Perhaps I am. Well, 
she’s worth it.” With a smile, he finished off his work, 
got himself to bed briskly, and was soon asleep. 

Sick at last of the dreary and musty room, Arthur had 
slouched miserably to bed — ^though he was sure that he 
could not sleep. He could not think, either, at least 
hardly coherently. The ruin which had swooped down 
on him was too overwhelming. And so quick ! All in a 
few hours! It seemed too great to understand, almost 
too great to feel. It was, as it were, a devastation, a 
clean sweep of all the best things in his life — his adora- 
tion for Bernadette, his loyalty to Godfrey, the affection 
which had gathered in his heart for these his kinsfolk, 
for this the home of his forefathers. A dull numb pain 
of the soul afflicted him, such as a man might feel in the 
body as he comes to consciousness after a stunning blow. 
The future seemed impossible to face; he did not know 
how to set about the task of reconstructing it. He was 
past anger, past resentment; he did not want Oliver 
239 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Wyse’s blood now. Was he not now even as Oliver, 
save that Oliver was successful? And Oliver owed no 
loyalty to the man he robbed. In the extravagance of 
his despair, he called himself the meanest of men as well 
as the most miserable. “My God, my God V’ he kept mut- 
tering to himself, in his hopeless miserable desola- 
tion. 

But he was young and very weary, exhausted with his 
suffering. He had sworn to himself that sleep was im- 
possible; but Nature soon had her way with him. Yet 
he struggled against sleep, for on it must follow a bitter 
awakening. 

When he did awake, it was broad daylight. From his 
bed, which stood between the two windows of the room, 
he could see the sunlight playing on the opposite wall to 
his right; to the left the wall was still in shadow. It 
seemed that he must have pulled up the blind of one 
window and not of the other, before he got into bed, 
though he did not remember doing it. Indeed at the 
first awakening he recollected nothing very distinctly. 
The memories of the night before took a minute or two 
to acquire distinctness, to sort themselves out. Pres- 
ently he gave a low dull groan and turned on his side 
again, refusing to face the morning — the future that 
awaited him inexorably. But another memory came to 
him in a queer quick flash — ^Judith’s smile when she told 
him that Godfrey had taken to his bed. With a mut- 
tered curse he drew his watch from under the pillow. 
Half-past seven! 

He raised himself on his elbow, his back turned to 
the light. Everything became clear to memory now ; and 
the end of it all was that he had to go, and go quickly, as 
soon as he could, by the earliest train possible. He did 
240 


PRESSING BUSINESS 


not want to see anybody; above all, he must not see 
Bernadette; he had promised her that, practically; nor 
could he himself bear another meeting and another part- 
ing. Joe Halliday and Wills and Mayne won the day — 
by the help of an alliance most unlooked for ! 

A voice spoke from the window to his right — where 
the blind was pulled up and the fresh morning air blew 
in through the opened sash. “So you’re awake at last, 
Arthur !” 

He rolled over onto his other elbow in surprise, blink- 
ing at the strong light. Judith was sitting on the broad 
low seat beneath the window. She wore a walking dress 
and out-of-door boots, but her hair was only carelessly 
caught together; she wore no hat. She smiled at him, 
but her eyes looked red, and she held her handkerchief 
tightly squeezed in one hand. 

“Why, what are you doing here ?” he demanded. 

“Well, I’ve been crying — not that that’s any use. I’ve 
been here nearly half an hour. I meant to wake you, but 
you looked so awfully tired. Besides, it was too late.” 

“Too late for what?” 

“He’s taken her away, Arthur.” 

He didn’t move; propped up on his elbow, he looked 
at her with a morose steadfastness. 

“I’m generally out before breakfast, you know, with 
Patsy. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I was earlier 
than usual. I was out by half-past six, and went for a 
walk in the meadows. Coming back, I passed the garage ; 
Stokes was cleaning the car, and I stopped to speak to 
him about the new puppy — he’s not very well. I no- 
ticed Sir Oliver’s car wasn’t there, and he told me that 
Sir Oliver’s man had knocked him up and made him 
unlock the garage an hour before. The man brought Sir 
241 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Oliver’s luggage from the house, Stokes said, and told 
him that Sir Oliver had walked on ahead, and he was to 
pick him up. Stokes asked where they were going, and 
the man said home, he supposed, but Sir Oliver hadn’t 
told him. The man was rather short with him, Stokes 
said, and seemed in a hurry. I thought it all sounded 
rather funny, especially Sir Oliver walking on ahead — 
at six in the morning! — but I said nothing to Stokes, 
though I think he thought it a bit queer too. So when 
I got back I went to Bernadette’s room. I didn’t exactly 
suspect that she’d gone too, but I had a sort of uneasy — 
well, I wanted to be quite sure, don’t you know? I 
opened the door quietly — a little way — and I saw that 
the room was quite light. That told me directly; she 
can’t bear a chink of light in her room. So I went in. 
She wasn’t there ; she hadn’t been to bed, she’d only lain 
down on the outside. Most of the things on her dressing 
table were gone, and I couldn’t sec the dressing bag that 
always stood by her big hanging cupboard. I thought I’d 
better come and tell you. On the way I met Barber, just 
up, I suppose, in his apron and shirt-sleeves. He told 
me that Sir Oliver had gone, and Wigram — his man, you 
know — too.” 

“But Stokes didn’t see either of them?” 

“No. They must have walked on together, and got 
into the car when it came up. Only just then I remem- 
bered that I’d found the front door unlocked and had 
meant to scold Barber for being so careless. It had gone 
out of my head till then.” She paused a moment. “Did 
you see her last night? She wanted to see you^asked 
where you’d gone, you know.” 

“Yes; she came to me in the smoking-room.” 

“Did she say anything that sounded like — like ?” 

242 


PRESSING BUSINESS 


He waited a while before he answered the unfinished 
question. ‘‘She said nothing about this morning.^’ 

“But did she say ?” 

Arthur nodded his head. 

“Oh, then, it’s quite clear!” said Judith. 

“I didn’t think she meant to go this morning. I was 
to go. We said good-by.” 

“She has gone, though. I’m sure of it. Well, I’ve 
thought she would for some time past, so I don’t quite 
see why I’ve been crying. How could we help it ? Could 
we give her what she wanted? Could Godfrey? Could 
I ? Could you ? Margaret was the only chance, but poor 
little Margaret’s — well, Margaret ! She wasn’t enough to 
keep her.” She rose from her seat. “Well, I’ll go, be- 
cause you must get up.” 

Arthur paid no heed. “I think it’s because of me that 
she’s gone this morning,” he said slowly. 

“Why ? Did you quarrel ? Did you talk about — about 
Sir Oliver?” 

“Yes, at first. Then I told her I was in love with 
her.” 

She raised her hands and let them fall in a gesture of 
despairing irritation. “In love, in love! Oh, I’ve had 
enough of it for the present ! Get up, Arthur !” 

“Yes, I’ll get up — get up and clear out,” he said, in 
sullen bitterness. “I’ll go back to work; that’s the best 
thing I can do. I meant to go this morning, anyhow.” 

She had moved towards the door, but she stopped now, 
facing him, between bed and door. “You mean that 
you’re going away — now — ^this morning?” He nodded 
his head. She waited a moment, and then smiled. “Oh, 
well, I think I’ll come too. After all, it won’t be very 
lively here, will it ?” 


243 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


He started in surprise. ‘‘You go ? You couldn’t think 
of that, Judith! Why, what’s little Margaret to do? 
And Godfrey? Oh, you can’t go!” 

“Why can’t I? I’m a Lisle, aren’t I? I’m a Lisle, 
just as much as you and Godfrey! Why aren’t I to be- 
have as a Lisle, then — go to, bed or run away when things 
get difficult and uncomfortable? I rather wish I had a 
real man to run away with — like Bernadette !” 

“God help him, if you had !” growled Arthur, to whom 
the insinuation was not grateful. 

“That’s better! You have got a bit of a fight some- 
where in you,” she mocked. “And anyhow — ^get up !” 

“Well, I’m going to — if you’ll clear out, and be 

“And be damned to me? Yes, I know! You can say 
that as often as you like, but you’ve got to help me to 
face this business. You’ve got to be the Man of the 
Family!” She smiled rather scornfully. “It’s the least 
you can do, if you really did try to make love to Berna- 
dette.” 

He flushed a little, but answered calmly : “As I don’t 
suppose you’ll be able to think of anything to say more 
disagreeable than that, you may as well go, and let me 
dress.” 

“Yes, I will.” She turned to the door, smiling in a 
grim triumph. Just as she went out, she looked over her 
shoulder and added: “You’ll have to tell Godfrey!” 

That gave him a chance. He cried after her: “You’re 
in a funk too, really!” 

She smiled at him. “Didn’t I say I was a Lisle — or 
half an one — like you, Arthur ?” She pulled the door to, 
with a bang, and he heard her quick decisive steps re- 
treating along the corridor. 

The next moment Barber entered the room, bringing 
244 


PRESSING BUSINESS 


hot water. He had seen Judith as she came out. Only 
another of the queer things happening this morning! 
He wore an air of tremendously discreet gravity. But 
Arthur guessed from his face that wonder and surmise, 
speculation and gossip, were afloat in the house already. 

He dressed quickly, and went down to breakfast. 
Judith was there alone; Margaret was having breakfast 
upstairs with the nurse, she told him — out of the way of 
chattering tongues, her look added — as she poured out 
coffee. 

Barber came in with a telegram, and laid it by her. 
“The boy^s waiting, Miss.^’ 

She read it. “No answer, Barber.” 

“Oh, I want to send a wire! Bring me a form, will 
you?” said Arthur. 

When he had written his message, Judith rose and 
came round to him, carrying his coffee in one hand and 
the telegram in the other; she gave him the latter to 
read : 

Don't expect me back. Shall write you. 

There was no signature. 

“What does she want to write about?” 

“Oh, her things, I suppose I What did you say in your 
wire ?” 

“I said : ‘Awfully sorry can’t come. Pressing family 
business.'’ ” 

^‘It is — very. I’m afraid I was rather disagreeable, 
Arthur.” 

He looked up at her with a rueful smile as he stirred 
his coffee. “You’re like a cold bath on a freezing morn- 
ing — stinging but hygienic.” 

There was a sudden choke in her voice as she an- 

245 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


swered: ‘‘I’d have said and done anything rather than 
let you go. And if I’ve ruined your play and your pros- 
pects, I can’t help it.” She walked quickly away to the 
window and stood there a moment with her back towards 
him. Then she returned to her place and ate a business- 
like breakfast. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


FAaNG THE SITUATION 

The gods were laughing at him ; so it seemed to Arthur 
Lisle. They chose to chastise his folly and his sin by 
ridicule. He whom the catastrophe — the intrigue and 
the flight — had broken was chosen to break the news of 
it. He must put on a composed consolatory face, preach 
fortitude, recommend patience under the inevitable. He 
was plumped back into his old position of useful cousin, 
the friend of both husband and wife. Judith was that, 
too. Why should not she carry the tidings? “No, you’ll 
be more sympathetic,’’ she insisted, with the old touch of 
mockery governing her manner again. “I should tell 
him too much of the truth, most likely.” So he must do 
it. But this useful cousin seemed a very different sort 
of man from the stricken sufferer, the jealous lover, of 
overnight. Indeed it was pitiable for the forsaken jeal- 
ous lover — denied even a departure from the scene of his 
woes, condemned to dwell in the house so full of her 
and yet so empty, the butt (so his sensitive fancy im- 
agined) of half the gossip and half the giggles of which 
to his ears Hilsey Manor was already full. But the for- 
saken lover must sink himself in the sympathetic kinsman 
— if he could ; must wear his face and speak in his tones. 
A monstrous hypocrisy! “Bernadette’s run away, but. 
I’m sorry to say, not with me, Godfrey.” No, no; that 
was all wrong — that was the truth. “Bernadette’s left 
247 


A YOUNG IVIAN’S YEAR 


you for Oliver Wyse — unprincipled woman and artful 
villain!” Was that right? Well, “artful villain” was 
right enough, surely? Perhaps “deluded woman” would 
do for Bernadette. “Brave woman and happy man 1” the 
rude laughter of the gods suggested. “If we’d either of 
us had half his grit, Godfrey!” All sorts of impossible 
things to say the gods invented in their high but discon- 
certing irony. 

“Well, I’m in for it — here goes !” thought Arthur, as he 
requested Barber to find out from Mrs. Gates — who had 
been acting as nurse to her master as well as to his little 
girl — when Mr. Lisle could see him. 

Gossip and giggles there may have been somewhere, 
probably there were, but not on the faces or in the de- 
meanor of Barber and Mrs. Gates. Pomp, funereal 
pomp ! They seemed sure that Bernadette was dead, and 
that her death was a suicide. 

“I will ascertain immediately, sir,” said Barber. He 
was really very human over it all — a mixture of shocked- 
ness and curiosity, condemnation and comprehension, 
outrage and excuse — for she certainly had a way with 
her, Mrs. Lisle had. But his sense of appropriateness 
overpowered them all — a result, no doubt, of the cere- 
monial nature of his vocation. 

Mrs. Gates’ humanity was more on the ample surface 
of her ample personality. She made no pretense of not 
understanding what had happened, and even went a little 
further than that. 

“Lor’, sir, well there !” she whispered to Arthur. “I’ve 
’ad my fears. Yes, he can see you, poor gentleman! I’ve 
not said a word to ’im. And poor Miss Margaret !” She 
was bent on getting every ounce out of the situation. 
Arthur did not want to kill her — she was a good woman 
248 


FACING THE SITUATION 


— but it would have relieved his feelings to jab a pen- 
knife into one of the wide margins around her vital 
parts. “Why is she so fat?” he groaned inwardly and 
with no superficial relevance. But his instinct was true; 
her corpulence did, in the most correct sense, aggravate 
the present qualities of her emotions and demeanor. 

And so, in varying forms, the thing was running all 
through the house — and soon would run all through the 
village. Mrs. Lisle — Mrs. Lisle of Hilsey! Portentous, 
horrible — and most exciting! It would run to London 
soon. Mrs. Lisle of Hilsey was not such a personage 
there — but still pretty well known. A good many peo- 
ple had been at that party where the Potentates had met. 
One of them had abdicated now and gone — well, per- 
haps only as far as Elba ! 

All the air was full of her, all the voices speaking her 
name in unison. The sympathetic cousin had great diffi- 
culty in getting on the top of the defeated lover when 
Arthur entered Godfrey’s room. And even anyhow — if 
one left out all the irony and all the complication — the 
errand was not an easy or a grateful one. If Godfrey 
had gone to bed sooner than witness a flirtation, what 
mightn’t he do in face of an elopement? 

The invalid was sitting up in bed, supported by sev- 
eral pillows, smoking a cigarette and reading yesterday’s 
Times. The improvement in his temper, manifest from 
the moment when he took to his bed, seemed to have been 
progressive. He made Arthur welcome. 

“And I hope you’ve not come to say good-by?” he 
added. Arthur had mentioned to him, too, the call to 
London and to work. 

“No; I’m going to stay on a few days more, if you can 

put me up. I say, Godfrey ” 

17 249 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Delighted to keep you — especially when I'm on my 
back. I hope to be up soon, though, very soon. Er — 
Wyse is staying on too, I suppose ?” 

“He left this morning, early, by motor." 

“Did he? Really?" He smothered his relief, but it 
was unmistakable. “Rather sudden, wasn't it?" 

“Yes, it was sudden. The fact is " 

“Why did he go ? Is he coming back ?" 

“I don’t know — well, I mean, he didn’t say anything 
to me. No, he won’t be back." 

“Oh, I suppose he told Bernadette about it ! I thought 
I heard somebody moving about the house. I’m a light 
sleeper, you know, especially when I’m ill. About six 
o’clock, I think it was. I — I suppose Bernadette’s dis- 
appointed at his not staying longer?" The assumed in- 
diiference of his question was contradicted by the eager- 
ness of his furtive glance. Arthur felt it on him; he 
flushed as he sat down by the bedside, seeking so hard 
for a form of words, for an opening — something enlight- 
ening without being brutal. Godfrey’s eyes, sharpened 
by his ill-will and suspicion, marked the flush and the 
hesitation ; he guessed there was something to tell. 
“Well?" he added, peevish at getting no immediate an- 
swer. 

“She — she’s gone away too, this morning, Godfrey — 
early — before we were up." 

A lean hand shot out from the bed and grasped his 
wrist. “Arthur ?" 

“Yes, old chap. I’m sorry to say — it’s a bad business." 

“You do mean ? Arthur, you do mean ?" 

“Yes; she’s gone with him." He could not look at 
Godfrey; his speech was no more than a mutter. He 
felt the grasp on his wrist tighten, till it hurt him. 

250 


FACING THE SITUATION 


^‘The damned villain! I knew it! The infernal vil- 
lain, Arthur !” Godfrey cried querulously. 

Clearly an assent was required. Arthur’s was inade^ 
quate: “Awfully bad business! Try to — to be calm, old 
fellow, while I tell you about it.” 

“Yes, yes ; tell me !” 

There was really nothing material left to tell, but God- 
frey was greedy for details ; such as there were to tell or 
conjecture he extracted by rapid questioning, even to the 
telegram which had come for Judith. Not till the end 
did he relax his hold on Arthur’s wrist and lean back 
again on his pillows. 

He lay silent like that for a long time, with Arthur 
silent beside him. His rage against Oliver seemed spent 
almost in the moment of its outburst ; to his companion’s 
relief he said nothing about Bernadette’s conduct. He 
lay pathetically quiet, looking tired now, rather than 
angry or distressed. At last he gave a long sigh. “Well, 
we know where we are now !” he said. 

That piece of knowledge had come to more than one 
inmate of the house in the last twelve hours. 

“We must face the situation, Arthur. It’s come to a 
crisis. I think I’m equal to getting up and — and facing 
the situation.” 

“Well, you know there’s no particular use in your ” 

“My feelings are — well, you can imagine them ” 

(“More or less!” threw in the gods, grimly chuckling.) 
“But I mustn’t think of myself only. There’s Margaret 
and — and all of it. Yes, I shall get up. I shall get up 
and sit in my chair, Arthur.” He was silent again for a 
minute. “It makes a great difference. I — I shall have 
to consider my course — what’s best in the interests of 
all of us. A terrible blow ! It must be a blow even to 

251 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


you, Arthur? You and she were such good friends, 
weren’t you? And she does this — she lets herself be 
seduced into doing this!” 

''Yes, of course, it’s — it’s a blow, but it’s you and 
Margaret we’ve got to think about.” 

"No, I don’t forget you; I don’t forget you!” ("If 
only he would!” groaned Arthur.) "Well, I must con- 
sider my course. Where did you say the telegram was 
sent from?” 

"Winchester.” 

"I expect they stopped to breakfast there.” 

"Very likely.” Arthur rose to his feet; he did not 
enjoy a "reconstruction” of the flight. The afflicted hus- 
band made no protest against his movement. 

"Yes, leave me alone for a little while. I have to 
think — I must review the position. Tell Judith I should 
like to see her in about an hour’s time, and — go into 
matters.” 

Happy to escape, Arthur left him facing the situation, 
reviewing the position, considering his course, and deter- 
mining to get up — to get, at any rate, into his armchair — 
the better to perform these important operations. The 
messenger of catastrophe came away with a strange im- 
pression of the effect of his tidings. After the first out- 
burst — itself rather peevish than passionate — came that 
idle, almost morbid curiosity about details from which 
he himself instinctively averted his eyes; then this inef- 
fectual fussiness, this vain self-assertion, which turned to 
facing the situation only when there was no longer any- 
thing or anybody to face, and to reviewing the position 
only when it was past mending. Of smitten love, even of 
pride wounded to the heart, there seemed little sign. All 
Arthur’s feelings fought against the sacrilegious idea, 
252 


FACING THE SITUATION 


but it would not be denied an entry into his mind — after 
the querulous anger, after the curiosity, mingling with 
the futile fussiness, there had been an undercurrent of 
relief — relief that nothing and nobody had to be faced 
really, that really nothing could be done, nothing expected 
from him, no call made now on courage or on energy — 
no, nor on a love or a sympathy already dead before 
Oliver Wyse struck them the final blow. 

That morning’s flight, then, was not the tragedy, but 
the end of it, not the culminating scene of terror or pity, 
but the fall of the curtain on a play played out. What- 
ever of good or evil in life it might bring for Bernadette, 
for Godfrey it brought relief in its train. It was griev- 
ous, no doubt, in its external incidents — a society scan- 
dal, a family shame — but in itself, in its true significance 
to his mind, as it really and closely touched his heart, it 
came as an end — an end to the strain which he could not 
support, to the challenge which he dared not face, on 
which he had turned his back in sulks and malingering — 
an end to his long fruitless efiFort to be a satisfactory 
husband. 

When Judith came down from her interview and 
joined Arthur in the garden before lunch, she had an- 
other aspect of the case to exhibit, a sidelight to throw 
on the deserted man’s mind and its workings. 

*‘How did you find him?” Arthur asked her. 

“Oh, quite calm — and immersed in his account books.” 
She smiled. “Yes, he’s up, in his chair, and a pile of 
them on the table at his elbow! He says that the first 
thing to do is to reduce his expenditure. He hopes now 
to be able to pay off his mortgage in four or five years. 
She was awfully extravagant, you know, and he hated 
mortgaging Hilsey.” 


2.‘53 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Do you think she knew he’d had to do it ?” 

“No, she didn’t. He wouldn’t let her know. He liked 
her to think him richer than he was, I think.” 

“Then he has no right to grumble at her extrava- 
gance.” 

“I never heard him do that — and he didn’t do it this 
morning. All the same, it worried him, and now he can 
save. Oh, enormously, of course ! The barouche and the 
pair of horses are to go, the first thing.” 

The barouche ! It carried his mind back to the begin- 
ning, when its costly luxury framed for his eyes their 
earliest picture of Bernadette’s dainty beauty. 

“If he isn’t going to keep it, he might send it after her. 
1 would.” 

“Yes, you’d do a lot of foolish things if you were let. 
Luckily you’re not!” 

“Judith, I half believe he’s glad!” 

“Need we admit quite so much as that? Let’s say he’s 
facing the situation manfully!” 

“Oh, he talked like that to. you too, did he?” He 
jumped up, and took a few paces about the lawn, then 
came back and stood beside her. “By God, if he’s glad, 
she was right to go, Judith !” 

“I’ve never said anything to the contrary, have I? 
Have you seen Margaret this morning?” 

“No, I haven’t. What made you ask me that just 
now ?” 

“She came into my head. After all, she’s a — a factor 
in the situation which, as Godfrey observes, has to be 
faced. I suppose I shall have to adopt her — more or less. 
Premature cares! Not so much Rome and Florence! 
It’s as well to realize where one comes in, one’s self. 
When Godfrey talks of facing the situation, I don’t think 

254 


FACING THE SITUATION 


he proposes to do it alone, you know. You and I come 
into it.” 

“Yes.” He added, after a pause: “Well, we can’t 
turn our backs on him, can we?” 

“I’ve told her that her mother’s gone on a visit — 
suddenly, to see a friend who’s ill — and didn’t like to 
wake her up to say good-by. But that’s a temporary 
solution, of course. She’ll have to know more, and 
something’ll have to be arranged about her and Berna- 
dette. I don’t suppose he’ll object to Bernadette seeing 
her sometimes.” She ended with a smile: “Perhaps 
you’ll be asked to take her and be present at the inter- 
views — and see that Sir Oliver’s off the premises.” 

“I’ll be hanged if I do anything of the sort! And, as 
you asked me to stay here, I don’t think you need go on 
laughing at me.” 

Judith was impenitent. “It’s a thing quite likely to 
happen,” she insisted. “Bernadette would like it.” 

He turned away angrily and resumed his pacing. Yet 
in his heart he assented to the tenor of her argument. 
She might, in her malice, take an extravagant case — a 
case which at all events seemed to him just now cruelly 
extravagant — but she was right in her main contention. 
No more than she herself could he turn his back on God- 
frey, or cut himself adrift from Hilsey. In last night’s 
desperate hour Bernadette and he, between them, seemed 
to have cut all the bonds and severed all the ties; his 
one impulse had been to get away quickly. But it could 
not be so. Life was not like that — at least not to 
men who owned the sway of obligations and felt the 
appeal of loyalty and affection. He could not desert the 
ship. 

Barber came out of the house and brought him a note. 

255 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


'Trom Mr. Beard, sir. Will you kindly send a verbal 
answer ?” 

He read it, and glanced towards Judith. He was mind- 
ed to consult her. But, no, he would not consult Judith. 
He would decide for himself; something in the present 
position made him put a value on deciding for himself, 
even though he decided wrongly. “All right, say I will. 
Barber.” He lit a cigarette and, walking back to Judith, 
sat down again beside her. But he said nothing; he 
waited for her to ask, if she were curious. 

She was. “What did Barber want?” 

“Only a note from Beard — about the match. We shall 
be one man short, anyhow, and two if I don't turn up. 
So I told Barber to say I would.” 

“Good! Margaret and I will come and watch you. 
We've not gone into official mourning yet, I imagine!” 

“Hang 'em, they may think what they like ! I'm going 
to play cricket.” 

So he played cricket, though that again would not have 
seemed possible overnight, and, notwithstanding that his 
eye might well have been out, he made five-and-twenty 
runs and brought off a catch of a most comforting order. 
Hilsey won the match by four wickets, and Judith, Mar- 
garet, and he strolled back home together in the cool of 
the evening, while the setting sun gilded the mellow and 
peaceful beauties of the old house. 

The little girl held Judith's hand and, excited by the 
incidents of the game, above all by Cousin Arthur's dash- 
ing innings — his style was rather vigorous than classic — 
prattled more freely than her wont. 

“I wish mummy hadn't had to go away just to-day,” 
she said. “Then she could have seen Cousin Arthur's 
innings. I wanted to cry when he was caught out !” 

256 


FACING THE SITUATION 


Arthur applied the words in parable, smiling grimly at 
himself in his pain. He had been crying himself at being 
caught out, and at mummy’s having had to go away that 
morning. But he mustn’t do it. He must set his teeth, 
however sore the pain, however galling the conscious- 
ness of folly. Surely, in face of what had happened to 
that house, nobody but an idiot — nobody but a man un- 
able to learn even words of one syllable in the book of 
life — could be content to meet trouble with sighs and 
sulks, or with cries only and amorous lamentation? Not 
to feel to the depths of his being the shattering blow, 
or lightly and soon to forget it — that could not be, nor 
did his instinct ask it ; it would argue shallowness indeed, 
and a cheapening of all that was good and generous in 
him, a cheapening, too, of her who, towards him at least, 
had ever been generous and good. What had he, of all 
men, against her? Had she not given him all she could 
— joy, comradeship, confidence in all things save that 
one? In the crisis of her own fate, when she was risking 
all her fortunes on that momentous throw, had she not 
paused, had she not turned aside, to pity him and to be 
very tender towards his foolishness? Was his the hand 
to cast at her the stone of an ungrateful or accusing 
memory ? 

They passed through the tall iron gates which, with a 
true squirearchical air, guarded the precincts of Hilsey 
Manor. 

“Why, look, there’s papa in the garden, walking on the 
lawn !” cried Margaret. 

Yes, there was Godfrey, heavily wrapped in shawls, 
walking to and fro briskly. He had got up and come 
downstairs — to face the situation. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


DID YOU SAY MRS.? 

The end of another fortnight found Arthur still at 
Hilsey, but on the eve of leaving it, for a time at least. 
Another summons had reached him, one which he could 
not disregard. His mother wrote, affectionately re- 
proaching him for delaying his visit to Malvern. “You 
promised us to come before this. Besides, Pm not very 
well, and you’ll cheer me up. You mustn’t altogether 
forsake us for the other branch of the family !” 

Arthur recognized his duty, but with a reluctance of 
which he was ashamed. Common disaster had drawn 
the party at Hilsey more closely together. Judith and 
Arthur, working hand in hand to “make things go,” had 
become firm friends, though they were apt to spar and 
wrangle still. The little girl — she knew by now that her 
mother’s visit was to be a long one — responded to the 
compassionate tenderness evoked by a misfortune which 
she herself did not yet understand ; she gained confidence 
from marks of love and, as she claimed affection more 
boldly, elicited it in ampler measure. 

Freed from a struggle to which he was morbidly con- 
scious of being unequal, Godfrey Lisle showed his better 
side. Aggressive courage was what he lacked and knew 
that he lacked; he was not without fortitude to endure 
the pain of a blow that had fallen — especially when he 
could be sure it was the last ! He was at peace now ; the 

258 


DID YOU SAY MRS.? 


worst possible had happened — and, lo, it was not unen- 
durable ! There were compensations ; he was not humili- 
ated any more, and the sad leak in his finances — it had 
threatened even his tenure of Hilsey itself — could be 
stopped. Though he was still fussy, self-important over 
trifles, sometimes ridiculous, and very dependent on his 
stronger kinsfolk, he was more amiable, less secretive of 
his feelings, free from sulks and grievances. The gentle- 
man in him came out both in his bearing towards those 
about him and in the attitude he adopted towards Berna- 
dette herself. He spoke of her as seldom as he could, 
but without rancor, and in regard to future arrangements 
put himself at her disposal. When letters came from 
Oliver Wyse’s lawyers, acting on instructions received 
from the voyagers on summer seas, he caused Arthur to 
reply for him that he would give her the freedom she de- 
sired, and would endeavor to meet whatever might be 
her wishes in regard to Margaret. He was scrupulous — 
and even meticulous — over setting aside all her personal 
belongings to await her orders. He declared himself 
ready to consider any pecuniary arrangement which 
might be thought proper ; some relics of his old pride in 
lavishly supplying all her requirements seemed to survive 
in his mind, side by side with his relief at the thought of 
paying off his mortgage. 

To Arthur the quiet after the storm brought a more 
sober view of himself and of his life, of what he had 
done and what had happened to him. His eyes saw more 
clearly for what they were both the highflying adoration 
and the tempestuous gust of passion which jealousy had 
raised. A critical and healthy distrust of himself and 
his impulses began gradually to displace the bitter and 
morbid self -contempt of the first hours and days after 

259 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


the disaster. He must still grieve with the forsaken wor- 
shiper of the smoking-room ; he could not yet forget the 
pangs of the baffled lover ; but a new man was coming to 
birth in him — one who, if he still grieved and sighed, 
could come near to smiling too at these extravagant gen- 
tlemen with their idolizing dreams and gusty passions. 
Rueful and bitter the smile might be, but it was tonic. 
It helped to set devotion, passion, and catastrophe in their 
true places and to assign to them their real proportions. 
In it was the dawn of a recognition that he was still no 
more than on the threshold of a man’s experience. 

Neither was it a bad thing perhaps that another and 
very practical trouble began to press him hard. Though 
he was living in free quarters now, the bills contracted 
during his great London season began to come tumbling 
in, many for the second or third time. “To account ren- 
dered” was a legend with which he was becoming fa- 
miliar to the point of disgust. The five hundred pounds 
was running very low; the diminished dividends could 
not meet his deficit. When Godfrey talked finance to 
him, as he often did, he was inclined to retort that there 
were finances in a more desperate condition than those of 
the estate of Hilsey and possessing no such new-born 
prospects of recovery — prospects born in sore travail, it 
is true, but there all the same for Godfrey’s consolation. 

But there was the farce! That persevering project 
emerged on the horizon again. It was in full rehearsal 
now ; it was due in three weeks’ time ; it had got a third 
act at last, Mr. Claud Beverley and Mr. Langley Ether- 
ingham having apparently assuaged their differences. 
It had even got a name — a name, as Joe Halliday wrote 
in his enthusiasm, as superior to the name of Help Me 
Out Quickly as the play itself was to that bygone master- 
260 


DID YOU SAY MRS.? 


piece. Arthur told Judith the name and, in spite of 
that resolution of his about relying on his own judgment, 
awaited her opinion anxiously. After all, in this case it 
was not his judgment, but, presumably, Mr. Claud Bev- 
erley’s. 

*'Did You Say Mrs.? That’s what you’re going to 
call it, is it?” 

“It’s what they’re going to call it. It’s not my inven- 
tion, you know.” 

“Well, I should think it must be vulgar enough, any- 
how,” said Judith. 

“Oh, vulgar be hanged! That doesn’t matter. Jolly 
good, I call it 1 Sort of piques your curiosity. Why did 
He say Mrs.? — that’s what the public’ll want to know, 
don’t you see ?” 

“Or why did She say Mrs*., perhaps!” 

“There you are! Another puzzle! You see, you’re 
curious yourself directly, Judith.” 

“Well, yes, I am, rather,” Judith confessed, laughing. 

“I think He said it about Her — when she wasn’t,” 
Arthur maintained. 

“I think She said it about herself,” urged Judith. 
“Oh, of course, she wasn’t — there can’t be any doubt 
about that.” 

So Judith thought well of the title — evidently she did 
— Arthur’s approval was fortified and grew with contem- 
plation. “It’s corking!” he declared. “And if only 
Ayesha Layard’s half as good as Joe thinks ” 

“If only who’s half as good as ?” 

“Ayesha Layard — that’s our star, our leading lady. A 
discovery of Joe’s ; he’s wild about her.” 

“I wonder who invented her name, if you come to 
that!” 

261 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Well, we’ll hope for the best,” said Arthur, laughing. 
“I shall be up a tree if it goes wrong.” 

“Not a bad thing to be up a tree sometimes ; you get a 
good view all round.” 

“Sagacious philosopher ! But I can’t afford to lose my 
money.” 

“Let’s see, how much were you silly enough ?” 

“One — thousand — pounds! No less! I can’t really 
quite make out how I came to do it.” 

“I’m sure I can’t help you there, Arthur. I wasn’t in 
your confidence.” 

“Never mind! In for it now! I shall get hold of 
Joe for lunch on my way through town, and hear all 
about it.” 

“You might look in at the Temple too, and see how 
many briefs you’ve missed.” 

“Well, it’s vacation, you know Still I mean to 

settle down to that when I get back from Malvern.” 

“Yes, you must. We mustn’t keep you any longer. 
You’ve been very good to stay — and it’s been very good 
to have you here, Arthur.” 

“By Jove, when I think of what I expected my visit 
here to be, and what it has been !” 

She shook her head at him with a smile. “Then don’t 
think of it,” she counseled. “Think of Did You Say 
Mrs. ? instead !” 

The parting from Hilsey could not be achieved with- 
out some retrospects, some drawing of contrasts, without 
memories bitter or seductive ; that would have demanded 
a mind too stoical. Yet his leave-taking was graced and 
softened by their reluctance to let him go. He went not 
as a guest whose sojourn under a strange roof is fin- 
ished and who may chance not to pass that way again; 

262 


DID YOU SAY MRS.? 


his going was rather as that of a son of the house who 
sallies forth on his business or his ventures and, God 
willing, shall come again, bringing his sheaves with him, 
to a home ever and gladly open. So they all, in their 
ways, tried to tell him or to show him. For their sakes, 
no less than for the dear sake of her who was p'one, his 
heart was full. 

Joe Halliday bustled in to lunch at the appointed meet- 
ing-place as busy and sanguine as ever — so busy, indeed, 
that he appeared not to have been able to see much of 
Did You Say Mrs.? lately. “But it’s going on all right,” 
he added reassuringly. “We had a job over that third 
act, but it’s topping now. Claud had an idea that Lang- 
ley liked at last, thank heaven! It’s a job to keep 
those two chaps from cutting one another’s throats. 
That’s the only trouble. I expect they’ll be rehears- 
ing this afternoon. Would you like to drop in for a 
bit?” 

“Love it! I’ve never seen a rehearsal, and this’ll be 
thrilling! My train isn’t till four-forty-five.” 

“Ayesha’s divine! Look here, you mustn’t make love 
to her. I’m doing that myself. I mean I’m trying. 
That’s as far as I’ve got.” He laughed good-humoredly, 
devouring rump steak at a ruinous rate. 

“How’s everybody, Joe? How are the Sarradets?” 

“I saw the old man only yesterday. He’s in great form 
— so cockahoop about this company of his that I believe 
he’s taken on a new lease of life.” 

“What company? I haven’t heard about it.” 

“Haven’t you? Why, he’s turned his business into a 
company — mainly to stop our young friend Raymond 
from playing ducks and drakes with it, when his turn 
comes. It’s a private company — no public issue of shares. 

263 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


A few debentures for his friends — IVe been looking 
after that side of it for him a bit. Like some ?” 

^‘Thanks, but just at present I’m not supporting the 
investment market,” smiled Arthur. 

“Will be soon ! So will all of us. Yes, it’s all fixed — 
and that lucky devil, Sidney Barslow, steps in as Man- 
aging Director. He’s done himself pretty well, all round, 
has Sidney!” 

“He seems to have. Is he all right?” Arthur’s com- 
ment and question were both so devoid of interest that 
Joe stared at him in amazement. 

“I say, don’t you know? Didn’t anybody write and 
tell you? Didn’t she write? Marie, I mean. She’s en- 
gaged to Sidney. Do you mean to say you didn’t know 
that?” 

“No ; nobody told me. I’ve been away, you see.” He 
paused a moment. “Rather sudden, wasn’t it?” 

“Well, when a stone once begins to roll downhill !” 

said Joe, with a knowing grin. “Besides, he’d been 
very useful to them over Raymond. The old man took 
no end of a fancy to him. I imagine it all somehow 
worked in together. Funny she didn’t write and tell you 
about it !” 

Arthur felt that his companion was regarding him 
with some curiosity; the friendship between Marie Sar- 
radet and himself had been so well known in the circle ; 
whether it would become anything more had doubtless 
been a matter of speculation among them. He did not 
mind Joe’s curiosity; better that it should be turned on 
this matter than on his more recent experiences. 

“I suppose she had something considerably more press- 
ing to think about,” he remarked, with a smile. 

Yet the news caused not indeed resentment or jeal- 
264 


DID YOU SAY MRS.? 


ousy, but a vague annoyance, based partly on vanity — 
the engagement was sudden, the deeper memories of an- 
other attachment must have faded quickly — but mainly 
on regret for Marie. He could not help feeling that she 
was throwing herself away on a partner beneath her, 
unworthy of her — from family reasons in some measure 
probably, or just for want of anybody better. The Marie 
he had known — ^that side of her which her shrewd and 
affectionate diplomacy had always contrived to present 
to the eyes whose scrutiny she feared — ^the Marie whom 
once he had marked for his — surely she could not easily 
mate with Sidney Barslow, for all the good there was in 
him? He forgot that there might be another Marie 
whom he did not know so well, perhaps in the end a 
more real, a more natural, a preponderating one. He 
should not have forgotten that possibility, since there had 
proved to be more than one Bernadette ! 

“Well, I hope they’ll be very happy. I must go and see 
her when I’m back in town.” 

“They’ll do all right,” Joe pronounced. “Sidney has 
taken a reef in — several, in fact. He’ll have a big chance 
at old Sarradet’s place, and, if I know him, he’ll use it.” 

“And how’s Raymond going on?” 

“Raymond’s on appro., so to speak, both as to the 
business and in another quarter, I think. Our pretty 
Amabel is waiting to see how he sticks to the blue 
ribbon of a blameless life. The old set’s rather gone 
to pot, hasn’t it, Arthur? The way of the world, 
what ?” 

“By Jove, it is !” sighed Arthur. Things had a way of 
going to pot — with a vengeance ! 

The two philosophers finished their pints of beer, and 
set out for the Burlington Theater ; upon entering which 
18 265 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


they shed their philosophic character and became excited 
adventurers. 

Mr. Langley Etheringham was taking the company 
through the first act ; they were in the middle of it when 
Joe, having piloted Arthur through dark and dirty ways, 
deposited him in the third row of the stalls. The well- 
known “producer” was a shortish man with a bald head, 
a red mustache, and fiery eyes. He was an embodiment 
of perpetual motion. He kept on moving his arms from 
the level of his thighs to that of his head, as though he 
were lifting a heavy weight in his hands, and accom- 
panied the action by a constant quick murmur of “Pick 
it up, pick it up, pick it up !” He broke off once or twice 
to observe sadly : “Not a funeral, my boy, not a funeral!” 
but he was soon back at his weight-lifting again. 

“Langley’s a great believer in pace, especially in the 
first act,” Joe whispered. Arthur nodded sagaciously. 
Mr. Etheringham fascinated him ; he could have watched 
him contentedly for a long while, as one can watch the 
untiring and incredibly swift action of some machine. 
But nobody on the stage seemed to take much notice. 
Some were reading their parts all the time, some were 
trying to do without their written parts. The leading 
man — a tall, stout, gray-haired man in double eyeglasses 
— just mumbled his words indifferently, but was terribly 
anxious about his “crosses.” “Where’s my cross?” “Is 
this my cross?” “I crossed here this morning.” “I 
don’t like this cross, Langley.” His life seemed com- 
pact of crosses. 

Arthur could not gather much of what the first act 
was about; he had missed the “exposition” — so at least 
Joe informed him ; the confusion was to an inexperienced 
eye considerable, the dialogue hard to hear owing to 
266 


DID YOU SAY MRS.? 


Mr. Ether ingham’s exhortations and the leading man’s 
crosses. But he did not mind much; he was keenly in- 
terested in the scene and the people. It did, however,, 
appear that the four characters now taking part in the 
action were expecting a fifth, a woman, and that her en* 
trance was to be the turning-point of the act. Mr. 
Etheringham varied his appeal. “Keep it up, keep it up^ 
keep it up!” he implored. “Keep it up for her, Willie, 
keep it up^ He waved his arms furiously, then brought 
them suddenly to rest, stretched out on each side of him. 
'^Nowr 

Everybody was still; even the leading man did not 
want to cross. 

Miss Ayesha Layard entered. It was evidently a great 
moment. The others stiffened in the rigidity of surprise. 
Miss Layard looked round, smiling. The leading man 
began to mumble. Mr. Etheringham peremptorily 
stopped him. “Hold it, Willie; hold it — I told you to 
hold it, man! It’ll stand another five seconds!” With 
poised hands he held them planted and speechless. 
“Now!” 

Joe heaved a sigh. “Pretty good, don’t you think so?” 

“Splendid !” said Arthur. “I suppose she’s really 
somebody else, or — or they think she is?” 

“Ought to be, anyhow,” Joe whispered back, with a. 
cunning smile. 

Miss Ayesha Layard was a small lady, very richly 
dressed. She had a turned-up nose, wide-open blue eyes, 
and an expression of intense innocence. She did not look 
more than seventeen, and no doubt could look even 
younger when required. In one hand she held the script 
of her part, in the other a large sandwich with a bite out 
of it ; and she was munching. 

267 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


'‘No, no!” cried Mr. Etheringham, suddenly spying 
the sandwich, "I will not go on while you’re eating!” 

“But I’m so hungry, Mr. Etheringham!” she pleaded, 
in a sweet childish voice. “It’s past three and I’ve had 
no lunch.” 

“Lunch, lunch, always lunch! No sooner do we be- 
gin to get going than it’s lunch!” 

She stood still, munching, smiling, appealing to him 
with wide-open candid eyes. He flung himself crossly 
into a chair. “Take a quarter of an hour, then! After 
that we’ll go back and run straight through the act.” 
Miss Layard dimpled in a smile. He broke out again. 
“But go on while you’re eating I won’t !” 

On receiving their brief respite, the men on the stage 
had scuttled off like rabbits into their holes; Miss Lay- 
ard, too, hurried off, but soon reappeared in the front of 
the house, carrying a paper bag with more sandwiches. 
She sat down in the front row of the stalls, still munch- 
ing steadily. 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Joe, and went and sat 
himself down beside her. 

A melancholy voice came from the cavernous recesses 
of the pit : “We could do with a bit more life, Ethering- 
ham.” 

“If we get the pace and the positions now, the life’ll 
soon come. I’ve got some experience, I suppose, 
haven’t I?” 

The author emerged into view, as he replied sadly: 
“Oh, experience — yes !” He did not appear disposed to 
allow the producer any other qualifications for his task. 

Mr. Etheringham gave him a fiery glare but no answer. 
Mr. Beverley saw Arthur, and came up to him. “Hullo, 
Lisle, have you come to see this rot?” 

268 


DID YOU SAY MRS.? 


“Yes; but Fm afraid I can’t stay. I’ve a train to 
catch, and I’ve got to get my hair cut first.” 

“Oh, well, you won’t miss much!” said Beverley re- 
signedly, as he dropped into the next stall. 

Arthur was surprised at his mode of referring to the 
great work; his attitude had been different that night at 
the Sarradets’, when they celebrated the formation of the 
Syndicate. Perhaps the author detected his feeling, for 
he went on : 

“Oh, it’s all right of its sort! It’s funny, you know, 
all right — it’ll go. Etheringham there swears by it, and 
he’s a pretty good judge, in spite of his crankiness. But 
— well. I’ve moved on since I wrote it. Life has begun 
to interest me — real life, I mean, and real people, and the 
way things really happen. I’m writing a play now about 
a woman leaving her husband and children. I hope the 
Twentieth Society’ll do it. Well, I treat it like a thing 
that really happens, not as you see it done on the stage 
or in novels.” 

Arthur was curious. “How do you make her do it?” 
he asked. 

“Why, in a reasonable way — openly, after discussing 
the matter as real men and women would. None of the 
old elopement nonsense ! Real people don’t do that.” 

“Well, but — er — don’t people differ?” 

“Not half so much as you think — not real people. 
Well, you’ll see. Only I wish I could get on a bit quicker. 
The office takes up so much of my time. If I can 
make a bit out of this thing. I’ll chuck the office.” He 
paused for a minute. “You’ve been away, haven’t 
you ?” 

“Yes, I’ve been down in the country. Had some 
family affairs to — er — look after.” He was a little sur- 
269 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


prised that Mr. Beverley had condescended to notice his 
absence. 

‘‘Going to be in town now ?” 

“Well, I’m off for about ten days more. Then I’ve 
got to buckle to work — if I can get any work to buckle 
to, that is.” 

Mr. Beverley nodded thoughtfully and smiled. The 
next moment a loud giggling proceeded from where Miss 
Layard and Joe sat. The lady rose, saying: “I’ll ask 
Mr. Beverley,” and came towards them, Joe looking on 
with a broad grin on his face. “He’s not like you — he’s 
sensible and serious.” After a quick glance over her 
shoulder at Joe, she addressed the author. “Oh, Mr. 
Beverley, you’re a literary man, and all that! Tell me, 
do you say ‘ee-ther’ or ‘eye-ther’ ?” Her face was a pic- 
ture of innocent gravity. 

“Eye-ther,” replied the eminent author promptly. 

“But which?” 

“Eye-ther.” 

“Oh, but haven’t you a choice ?” 

“I tell you, I say ‘eye-ther,’ Miss Layard.” 

Joe sniggered. Arthur began to smile slowly, as the 
joke dawned upon him. 

“Just as it happens — or alternately — or on Sundays 
and week days, or what, Mr. Beverley?” 

“I’ve told you three times already that I say ” He 

stopped, looked at her sourly, and fell back in his stall, 
muttering something that sounded very like “Damned 
nonsense I” 

“I thought I could pull your leg !” she cried exultantly, 
and burst into the merriest peal of laughter — sweet 
ringing laughter that set Arthur laughing too in sym- 
pathy. She was indeed all that Joe had said when she 
270 


DID YOU SAY MRS.? 


laughed like that. She was irresistible. If only Mr. 
Beverley had given her opportunity enough for laugh- 
ter, Did You Say Mrs.? must surely be a success ! 

She saw his eyes fixed on her in delight. “Awfully 
good, isn’t it?” she said. “Because you can’t get out of 
it, whatever you answer !” Her laughter trilled out again 
— clear, rich, and soft. 

“First Act!” called Mr. Etheringham threateningly. 

“I’d like to try it on him,” she whispered. “Only he’s 
so cross 1” 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE OLD DAYS END 

Arthur was an affectionate son and enjoyed going 
home, yet on this occasion he approached his destination 
with some uneasiness. Mrs. Lisle was a religious wbm- 
an, Anna was even more strictly devout; they both pro- 
fessed High Church principles, and though frail health 
had compelled the mother to give up practical good works 
the daughter was busily engaged in them. They had 
lived out of the large world all their lives. Their stand- 
ards and point of view had none of the easiness and 
laxity of London drawing-rooms and London clubs. 
They were not at all modem. Arthur smiled over the 
thought that Mr. Claud Beverley would probably decline 
to consider them real ; but he did not smile at the pros- 
pect of discussing with them the catastrophe of Hilsey. 
He had broken the terrible news by letter ; that was better 
than announcing it in person and encountering the full 
force of dismay and reprobation which it must provoke. 
He had added : “It is very painful to talk of it and can 
do no good. Let us forget it when we meet”; but he 
was extremely doubtful whether this hint would have 
any effect. Horror does not, unfortunately, preclude 
curiosity. 

At first, however, there was no thought or talk of the 
sin or the sinner. They had a great piece of news for 
him, which they had saved up to tell him themselves; 

272 


THE OLD DAYS END 


they would not waste it on a letter. Anna had become 
engaged to be married to Ronald Slingsby, the curate of 
the parish. Another surprise of this kind for Arthur! 
But here he was unreservedly delighted, and the more so 
because he had hardly expected that Anna would take, 
or perhaps would find, a husband ; she had always seemed 
aloof from that sort of thing, too deeply immersed in her 
pious activities. It was rather strange to see austere 
Anna stand blushing — actually blushing — ^by the chair 
where the frail gray-haired mother sat, and talking about 
“Ronald” with shy pride and happiness. Ronald had 
been a fellow Malvernian of his, and Arthur did not pri- 
vately think much of him No need, of course, to 

say that! 

“And he^s just devoted to her,” said Mrs. Lisle. “Oh, 
yes, he is, Anna dear! He told us that at first he had 
scruples about marrying, as he was a priest, but he felt 
that this great feeling must have been given him for a 
purpose, and so his conscience became quite reconciled.” 

“I don’t think he would ever have cared for anybody 
who wasn’t interested in his work and couldn’t help 
him in it,” Anna added. 

“I’d have bet he’d reconcile his conscience all right,” 
smiled Arthur. 

“My dear boy, you mustn’t be flippant!” said his 
mother, in gentle reproof. “I’m very, very happy,” she 
went on, “to have Anna settled with a man she can 
love and trust, before I’m called away; and I’m not 
nearly as strong as I was. Last winter tried me very 
much.” 

“Her cough gets so bad sometimes,” said Anna. “But 
I shall be only across the road and able to look after her 
just as well when we’re married. Go and get ready for 

273 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


dinner, Arthur. It’s been put back till eight o’clock on 
your account, and Ronald is coming.” 

Ronald came; but, owing to its being a Friday, ate no 
meat; his betrothed followed his example; bodily weak- 
ness excused, on Mrs. Lisle’s part, a slice of the white 
meat of a chicken, both of whose legs were dedicated to 
Arthur’s healthy appetite. Ronald was not a bad-looking 
fellow — ^tall, thin, and muscular; he was decidedly ec- 
clesiastical in demeanor and bearing — as well as, of 
course, in apparel — and this betrayed him sometimes into 
a sort of ex cathedra attitude which his office might jus- 
tify but his youth certainly did not. Remembering him 
as an untidy urchin full of tricks only a few years ago, 
Arthur became a little impatient of it. 

At last Mrs. Lisle bethought her of Hilsey. ‘"And 
how did you leave the poor people?” she asked gently. 
“You needn’t mind speaking before Ronald; he’s one of 
the family now.” 

“Oh, really, they’re — er — bearing up pretty well, 
mother. It’s a bad job, of course, a great shock, and all 
that, but — well, things’ll settle down, I suppose.” 

“Has anything been heard of the unfortunate woman ?” 
Mrs. Lisle went on. 

Arthur did not like the phrase; he flushed a little. 
“They’re abroad, mother. She’ll naturally stay there, I 
should think, till matters are adjusted.” 

“Adjusted, Arthur?” Anna’s request for an interpre- 
tation sounded a note of surprise. 

“Till after the divorce, I mean.” 

“Does your cousin intend to apply for a divorce?” 
asked the happy suitor. 

“Bernadette wants one, and he’s ready to do anything 
she wishes.” 


274 


THE OLD DAYS END 


A long pause fell upon the company — evidently a 
hostile pause. 

"‘And will the other man go through a form of mar- 
riage with her?” asked Ronald. 

“Of course he’ll marry her. To do Oliver Wyse jus- 
tice, we needn’t be afraid about that.” 

“Afraid !” Anna exclaimed, very low. Mrs. Lisle 
shook her gray head sadly. “Unhappy creature!” she 
murmured. 

Arthur had been bred in this atmosphere ; but, coming 
back to it now, he found it strange and unfamiliar. Dif- 
ferent from the air of London, profoundly different 
from the air of Hilsey itself! There they had never 
thought of Bernadette as an unfortunate woman or an 
unhappy creature. Their attitude towards her had been 
quite different. As for his own part in the transaction — 
well, it was almost amusing to think what would happen 
at home if the truth of it were told. He had a mischiev- 
ous impulse to tell Ronald — but, no, he must not risk 
its getting to his mother’s ears. 

“And they’re abroad together !” mused Mrs. Lisle. 

“They’re on his yacht — so the lawyers said — some- 
where in the Mediterranean.” 

“How can they?” Anna speculated. 

“Unfortunately we must remember that people are 
capable of a great many things which we cannot under- 
stand,” said Ronald. 

“Her conscience can give the poor thing no peace, I 
should think.” Again Mrs. Lisle shook her head 
sadly. 

“You mustn’t think hardly of Bernadette, mother. It 
— it wasn’t altogether her fault that she and Godfrey 
didn’t hit it off. He knows that, I think, himself. I’m 

275 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


sure he’d say so. She had her difficulties and — er — 
trials.” 

*'Most married women have, my dear, but that’s no 
reason for deserting their husbands and children, and 
committing the sin that she has committed — and is com- 
mitting.” 

‘If this unhappy person ” Ronald began. 

Arthur might stand it from his mother; he could not 
from Ronald Slingsby. “If you’ve nothing pleasant to 
call people, Slingsby, you might just call them by their 
names. Bernadette has been a dear good friend to me, 
and I don’t like the phrase you choose to describe her. 
And I must say, mother, that if you knew the circum- 
stances as well as I do you’d be more charitable.” 

“I’m as sorry — as bitterly sorry — as I can be, dear, 
but ” 

“It’s more a question of justice than of sorrow.” 

“Well, how have we been unjust, Arthur?” This 
question of Anna’s was plainly hostile. 

“You don’t allow for circumstances and — and tempta- 
tions, and ” He broke off impatiently. “It’s really 

not much good trying to explain.” 

“I’m inclined to be sorry I ever persuaded you to 
make their acquaintance,” sighed Mrs. Lisle. 

Anna’s hostility and Ronald Slingsby ’s prim commiser- 
ation annoyed Arthur exceedingly. His mother’s atti- 
tude towards him touched him more deeply, and to a 
half-amused yet sincere remorse. It grew more marked 
with every day of his visit. She showed an affectionate 
but rather reproachful anxiety about him — about his 
life, his doings, and his ways of thought. She seemed 
to fear — indeed she hinted — that his association with 
the Lisles (which meant, of course, with Bernadette, and 
276 


THE OLD DAYS END 


for which she persisted in shouldering a responsibility 
not really belonging to her) might have sapped his mor- 
als and induced a laxity in his principles and perhaps — 
if only she knew all — in his conduct. She evinced a 
gentle yet persistent curiosity about his work, about his 
companions and his pursuits in London. She abounded 
in references to the hopes and anxieties entertained about 
him by his father; she would add that she knew, under- 
stood, and allowed for the temptations of young men; 
there was the more need to seek strength where alone 
strength could be found. 

Arthur tried hard to banish the element of amusement 
from his remorse. Although his behavior in London 
might stand comparison pretty well with that of many 
young men of his age and class, yet he was really guilty 
on all counts of the indictment, and had so found himself 
by his own verdict before now. He had neglected his 
work, squandered his money, and declared himself the 
lover of his cousin's wife. He was as great a sinner, 
then, as the unfortunate woman herself! It was a bad 
record, thus baldly summarized. But what, in the end, 
had that bald summary to do with the true facts of the 
case, with the way in which things had been induced and 
had come about? In what conceivable relation, in how 
remote a degree of verisimilitude, did it stand towards 
the actual history of those London and Hilsey days? 
Accept condemnation as he might, his mind pleaded at 
least for understanding. And the dear frail old woman 
said she understood ! 

Moreover — and it is an unlucky thing for weak human 
nature — moral causes and spiritual appeals are apt, by 
force of accident or circumstances, to get identified with 
and, as it were, embodied in personalities which are not 
277 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


sympathetic; they pay the penalty. His mother’s anx- 
ious affection would have fared better, had Anna not 
stood so uncompromisingly for propriety of conduct, and 
Ronald Slingsby for the sanctity of the marriage bond. 
The pair — to Arthur they seemed already one mind, 
though not yet one flesh, and he secretly charged Ronald 
with setting his sister against him — were to him, in plain 
language, prigs; they applied their principles without 
the modifications demanded by common sense, and their 
formulas without allowance for facts; they passed the 
same sentence on all offenders of whatever degree of 
guilt. And yet, after all, as soon as Ronald wanted to 
marry, he had “reconciled his conscience” without much 
apparent difficulty! Lack of charity in them bred the 
like in him. When they cried “Sinners!” he retorted 
“Pharisees!” and stiffened his neck even against what 
was true in their accusation. 

But in the end his mother’s love, and perhaps still 
more her weakness, won its way with him. He achieved, 
in some degree at least, the difficult task of looking 
through her eyes, of realizing all the years of care and 
devotion, all the burden of hopes and fears, which had 
gone towards setting his feet upon the path of life; all 
that had been put into the making of him, and had ren- 
dered it possible for him to complete the work himself. 
He could not be as she, in her fond heart, would have 
him, a child still and always, unspotted from the world, 
nay, untouched, unformed by it; but he could be some- 
thing worth being; he could make a return, albeit not 
the return she asked for. He renewed to her the prom- 
ises he had made to himself : he would work, he would 
be prudent, he would order his ways. He took her small 
thin hand in his and patted it reassuringly, as he sat on a 
278 


THE OLD DAYS END 


stool by the side of her armchair. “I’ll be all I haven’t 
been, mother ! Still I believe I’ve learnt a thing or two.” 

Hardest thing of all, he opened his heart a little — not 
all the way — about the sinner, about Bernadette. 

“If you had known her, mother! It was cruel bad 
luck for her! She just had to have just what poor old 
Godfrey hasn’t got. Oh, I know all you say, but it is 
much harder for some people than for others. Now isn’t 
it? And to me I can’t tell you what she was. If she 
wants me, I’ve always got to be a friend to her.” 

“You were very fond of her, poor boy?” 

“Yes, mother. She was so full of kindness, and life, 
and gaiety — and so beautiful!” ^ 

“Poor boy!” she said again, very softly. She under- 
stood something of his adoration; it was as much as it 
was well for her to know. “We must pray that God, in 
His good time, will turn her gifts to good uses. Tell me 
about the others — poor Godfrey, and the little girl, and 
Judith Arden.” 

She listened gladly while he told her of Hilsey and 
how he loved the place, how they all liked him to be 
there, and of his hope that peace, if not joy, might now 
be the portion of that house. 

“It will be another home to you, and you’ll need one 
soon, I think.” He pressed her hand again. “No, my 
dear, I’m ready. I used to think Anna would make her 
home with you in London when I was gone, but that 
won’t be now.” She sighed. “Better not perhaps ! She’s 
at home here, and it mightn’t have worked.” Another 
sigh marked her resigned sorrow at the strange differ- 
ences there were between children. “And her home here 
— well, it won’t be quite the same as home to you, will 
it?” 


279 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Most decidedly not — Ronald Slingsby’s house! Ar- 
thur could reply only by another squeeze of her hand 
and a ruefully deprecating smile. 

^‘And some day you’ll have a wife and a home of your 
own.” Her mind traveled back to his earlier letters. 
“What’s become of that nice girl you told me about — 
Miss Sarradet ?” 

“I’ve just heard that she’s engaged to be married. She 
didn’t wait for me, mother!” 

“Oh, well, they were very nice people, I know, but 
hardly ” 

“Not quite up to the Lisles of Hilsey, you mean?” he 
asked, laughing. “Worldly pride!” 

“Anyhow, since she’s engaged ” Mrs. Lisle was 

evidently a little relieved. How near the peril once had 
been Arthur did not tell her. 

“Work now — not wives!” he said gaily. “I want to 
show you a whacking big brief, before many months are 
over. Still — don’t expect it too confidently.” 

“Keep friends with your sister. Keep friends with 
Ronald,” she enjoined him. “I don’t think he’ll rise to 
distinction in the Church; but he’s a good man, Ar- 
thur.” 

“When I’m Lord Chancellor, mother. I’ll give him a 
fat living !” 

“You’ve grown into a fine man, Arthur. You’re hand- 
somer than your father was.” The gentle voice had 
grown drowsy and low. He saw that she was falling 
into a doze — ^perhaps with a vision of her own youth be- 
fore her eyes. He did not disengage his hand from hers 
until she slept. 

Thus he came nearer to his mother, and for the sake 
and remembrance of that blessed his visit home. But to 
280 


THE OLD DAYS END 


Anna and her future husband any approach was far 
more difficult. There he seemed met by an obstinate in- 
compatibility. Ronald’s outlook, which now governed 
and bounded Anna’s, was entirely professional — with one 
subject excepted. He was an enthusiast about football. 
He had been a great player, and Arthur a good one. They 
fought old battles over again, or recited to one another 
the deeds of heroes. There are men who, when they 
meet, always talk about the same subject, because it is 
the only thing they have in common, and it acts as a 
bridge between them. Whenever a topic became danger- 
ous, Arthur changed it for football. Football saved the 
situation between them a hundred times. 

‘T really never knew how tremendously Ronald was 
interested in it, till you came this time, Arthur,” Anna 
remarked innocently. “I suppose he thought I wasn’t 
worth talking to about it.” 

*‘Of course you weren’t, my dear,” said Arthur. 
‘What woman is ?” He smiled slyly over his successful 
diplomacy. 

But though football may be a useful buffer against 
collisions of faith and morals, and may even draw hearts 
together for a season in common humanity, it can hardly 
form the cement of a home. His mother was right. 
When once she was gone — and none dared hope long 
life for her — there would be no home for him in the 
place of his youth. As he walked over the hills, on the 
day before he was to return to London, he looked on 
the prospect with the eye of one who takes farewell. 
His life henceforth lay elsewhere. The chapter of boy- 
hood and adolescence drew to its close. The last tie that 
bound him to those days grew slack and would soon give 
way. He had no more part or lot in this place. 

19 281 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Save for the love of that weak hand which would fain 
have detained him but for his own sake beckoned him 
to go, he was eager to depart. He craved again the 
fulness of life and activity. He wanted to be at work — 
to try again and make a better job of it. 

“I suppose I shall make an ass of myself again and 
again, but at any rate Fll work,” he said, and put behind 
him the mocking memory of Henry encountering the Law 
Reports in full career. Retro Satanas! He would work 
— even though the farce succeeded ! 


CHAPTER XXVI 


RATHER ROMANTIC I 

Marie Sarradet’s decision had been hastened by a 
train of events and circumstances which might have been 
devised expressly to precipitate the event. The chain 
started with a letter from Mrs. Veltheim, in which the 
good lady announced her intention of paying her brother 
a visit. Mr. Sarradet was nothing loath; he was still 
poorly, and thought his sister’s company and conversa- 
tion would cheer him up. Marie took a radically opposite 
view. She knew Aunt Louisa! A persevering blood- 
hound she was! Once her nose was on the trail, she 
never gave up. Her nose had scented Arthur Lisle’s at- 
tentions; she would want to know what had become of 
them and of him — when, and why, and whither they had 
taken themselves off. The question arose then — how to 
evade Aunt Louisa? 

It was answered pat — fortune favors the brave, and 
Sidney Barslow was, both in love and in war, auda- 
cious — ^by a letter from that gentleman. For ten days 
he and Raymond had walked hard from place to place. 
Now they proposed to make their headquarters at 
Bettws y Coed for the rest of the trip. “It’s done Ray- 
mond simply no end of good. He’ll be another man by 
the time we come back. You must want a change too ! 
Why not come down and join us for ten days, and see if 
Amabel won’t come with you? I believe she would. 

283 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


We’d have a rare time — Snowdon, and Beddgelert, and 
the Hound, and all the rest of it. This is a very romantic 
spot, with a picturesque stream and surrounded by lux- 
uriantly wooded cliffs and hills ” 

Hullo ! That was odd from Sidney Barslow, and must 
have cost him no small effort! 

Marie smiled over the effusion. *‘Oh, he got it out 
of the guide-book!” she reflected. But it was significant 
of what Sidney thought appropriate to his situation. 

She mentioned the plan to the old man. He was eager 
in its favor. The more his own vigor waned, the more 
he held out his arms to the strong man who had saved 
his son and who seemed sent by Heaven to save his 
business. To him he would give his daughter with joy 
and confidence. That the great end of marriages was to 
help family fortunes was an idea no less deeply enrooted 
in his bourgeois blood than in the august veins of the 
House of Austria itself. In favoring a match with Ar- 
thur Lisle he had not departed from it; at that time 
the only thing the family had seemed to lack was gen- 
tility — which Arthur would supply. But what was gen- 
tility beside solvency? He had been compelled to sell 
securities ! He was all for a man of business now. 

“Go, my dear, and take Amabel with you, if she’ll go. 
I’ll stand treat for both of you.” 

In spite of those vanished securities ! “Pops is keen !” 
thought Marie, smiling to herself. 

And naturally Miss Amabel, though she was careful to 
convey that the jaunt committed her to nothing, was not 
going to refuse a free holiday combined with a situation 
of some romantic interest : not too many of either came 
her way in life! 

Off the girls went, full of glee, and a fine time they 
284 


RATHER ROMANTIC! 


had. They found the young men bronzed to a masculine 
comeliness, teeming with masculine vigor, pleasantly ar- 
rogant over the physical strength of the male animal. 
Little Raymond strutted like a bantam cock. Where 
was the trembling nerveless creature whom Sidney 
Barslow had brought back to Regent’s Park? Sidney 
himself was magnificent — like a hunter in prime condi- 
tion; his flesh all turned to muscle, and his bold eager 
eyes clear as a child’s. What a leader of their expedi- 
tions! ^‘Take the train up Snowdon? Not much! I’ll 
carry anybody who gets tired !” he laughed, and in very 
truth he could have done it. A mighty fellow, glorying 
in the strong life within him ! 

He seemed splendid to Amabel. How should he not? 
Here was a man worthy of her dearly admired Marie. 
Raymond was privy to his hopes and favored them, first 
from admiration and gratitude, next because he knew his 
father’s purpose, and had his own pride to save. He 
was not to be left in charge of the business. To be post- 
poned to a stranger in blood would be a slur on him in 
the eyes of his friends and of the staff. But to a brother- 
in-law, his senior in age and experience — that would not 
be half so bad ! Besides he honestly wished to keep his 
preserver at hand in case of need, ready to save him 
again on occasion ; and he was shrewd enough to discern 
why Sidney had taken so much pains over his salvation. 
Father, friend, and brother were all of one mind. A 
chorus of joy and congratulation, of praises for her wis- 
dom, awaited Marie’s decision, if it were the right one. 
In the other event, the best to be hoped for was that 
affection should hide, more or less completely, a bitter 
disappointment, an unuttered charge of indifference to 
the wishes and the interests of those she loved. 

285 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Here were valuable allies for Sidney, for in Marie, too, 
the sense of family solidarity was strong. The Welsh 
trip came as an added godsend to him, showing him to 
the greatest advantage, setting her being astir and shak- 
ing her out of her staidness. But in the end he owed 
most to his resolution and his confidence, to the very 
simplicity of his view of the matter. How could a fine 
girl like her refuse a fine man like him? When it came 
to the point — as soon it should — surely she couldn't do 
it ? She smiled, she was amused, she teased him ; but her 
secret visions were always of surrender and acceptance 
and, following on them, of a great peace, a transfer of 
all her cares and troubles to shoulders infinitely powerful. 

He thought her romantic; he chose for his moment a 
moonlight evening, for his scene the old bridge — the 
Pont-y-Pair. He led her there after dinner, two nights 
before they were to go back to London. She guessed 
his purpose ; his air was one of determination. She stood 
looking down into the water, intensely conscious of his 
presence, though for some minutes he smoked in silence. 
Indeed the whole place seemed full of his masterful 
personality; she grew a little afraid. He knocked out 
his pipe on the parapet of the bridge; some glowing 
ashes twinkled down to the water and were quenched. 
She felt her heart beat quick as he put the pipe in his 
pocket. 

‘‘Marie!” 

“Yes.” 

“Come, won’t you even look at me?” 

She had no power to disobey; she turned her face 
slowly towards his, though otherwise she did not move. 

“Do you like me?” 

“Of course I like you, Sidney. You know that.” 

286 


RATHER ROMANTIC! 


"‘Anything more?” Her hands were clasped in front 
of her, resting on the parapet. He put out his great 
right hand and covered them. “I love you, Marie. I 
want you to be my wife.’^ 

She turned her face away again; she was trembling, 
not with fear, but with excitement. She felt his arm 
about her waist. Then she heard his voice in a low ex- 
ultant whisper: “You love me, Marie!” It was not a 
question. She leant back against the strong arm that 
encircled her. Then his kiss was on her lips. 

“But IVe never even said ‘yes,* ** she protested, trem- 
bling and laughing. 

“I’m saying it for you,” he answered, in jovial tri- 
umph. 

“Take me back to the hotel, please, Sidney,” she whis- 
pered. 

“Not a walk first?” He was disappointed. 

“As much as you like to-morrow!” 

He yielded and took her back. There she fled from 
him to her own room, but came back in half an hour, 
serene and smiling, to receive praise and embraces from 
brother and friend. She had thrown herself on her 
bed and lain there, on her back, very still save for her 
quick breathing; her eyes very bright — like a captured 
animal awaiting what treatment it knows not. Only by 
degrees did she recover calm; with it came the peace of 
her visions — the sense of the strong right arm encir- 
cling and shielding her. The idea that she could ever of 
her own will, aye, or of her own strength, thrust it away 
seemed now impossible. If ever woman in the world 
had a fate foreordained, hers was here ! 

But Sidney had no thought of fate. By his own right 
hand and his powerful arm he had gained the victory. 

287 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“If you’d told me three or four months ago that I 
should bring this off, I’d never have believed you,” he 
told Raymond, as they rejoiced together over whisky- 
and-soda, the first they had allowed themselves since 
they started on the trip. “Never say die! That’s the 
moral. I thought I was done once, though.” He screwed 
up his mouth over the recollection of that quarrel at the 
tennis courts. “But I got back again, all right. It just 
shows I” 

He forgot wherein he was most indebted to fortune, 
as his present companion might have reminded him. But 
strong men treat fortune as they treat their fellow-crea- 
tures; they use her to their best advantage and take to 
themselves the credit. The admiring world is content to 
have it so, and Raymond Sarradet was well content. 

“I did think she had a bit of a fancy for that chap, 
Arthur Lisle, once,” he remarked. 

“Well, I thought so too. But, looking back, I don’t 
believe it.” He smiled the smile of knowledge and ex- 
perience. “The best of girls have their little tricks, Ray- 
mond, my boy 1 I don’t believe she had, but I fancy she 
didn’t mind my thinking that she had. Do you twig 
what I mean, old fellow ?” 

This reading of the past in the light of the present 
commended itself to both of them. 

“Oh, they want tackling, that’s what they want 1” Sid- 
ney told his admiring young companion. 

The girls shared a room, and upstairs Amabel was 
chirping round Marie’s bed, perching on it, hopping off 
it, twittering like an excited canary. What would every- 
body say — Mr. Sarradet, Mildred, Joe Halliday? The 
event was calculated to stir even the Olympian melan- 
288 


RATHER ROMANTIC! 


choly of Claud Beverley! Here, too, there was an echo 
of the past — “And Mr. Arthur Lisle can put it in his 
pipe and smoke it \” she ended, rather viciously. Her loy- 
alty to Marie had never forgiven Arthur for his back- 
sliding. 

“You silly !’^ said Marie, in indulgent reproof. “As if 
Mr. Lisle would care! He thinks of nobody but his 
cousin — Mrs. Godfrey Lisle, I mean, you know.” 

“He did think about somebody else once,” nodded 
Amabel. “Oh, you can’t tell me, Marie ! But I suppose 
Mrs. Lisle has turned his head. Well, she is sweetly 
pretty, and very nice.” 

“I expect he’s quite as fond of her as he ought to be, 
at all events,” smiled Marie. 

“Rather romantic, isn’t it? Like Paolo! Don’t you 
remember how lovely Paolo was?” 

“But Mr. Lisle isn’t a bit like that. Still nobody could 
have a chance against her.” Marie’s tone was impartial, 
impersonal, not at all resentful. Sidney Barslow’s tri- 
umphant march swept all obstacles from his path, even 
the guerilla attack of insurgent memories. They could 
not cause delay or loss ; the sputter of their harmless fire 
rather added a zest. “He was very attractive in his 
way,” she reflected, with a smile. “And I really do be- 
lieve — no, I mustn’t tell you !” 

And in the end she did not. She had, however, said 
enough to account for Amabel’s exclamation of “Well, 
it’s a blessing you didn’t! I like Arthur Lisle; but to 
compare him with Sidney !” 

“I’ve got what I want, anyhow,” said Marie, with a 
luxurious nestling-down on her pillow. “How are you 
and Raymond getting on ?” she added with a laugh. 

“Marie, as if I should think of it, as if I should let 
289 


A YOUNG IVIAN’S YEAR 


him say a word, Oh, for ever so long ! One can’t be too 
careful!” 

‘'But you mustn’t make too much of it. He was very 
young and — and ignorant.” 

“He’s not so ignorant now,” Amabel remarked dryly. 

“Sidney’ll keep him in order. You may depend upon 
that. You see, he can’t fool Sidney. He knows too 
much. He’d know in a minute if Raymond was up to 
anything.” 

“Oh, that does make it much safer, of course ! Still” — 
She broke into a giggle — “Perhaps he won’t want it, 
after all, Marie !” 

“Oh, yes, he will, you goose!” said Marie. And so 
they chattered on till the clock struck midnight. 

When Arthur, returned from Malvern, came to con- 
gratulate Marie, he found her in a blaze of family glory, 
the reward of the girl who has done the wise thing and 
is content with it, who, feeling herself happy in wisdom, 
enables everybody else to feel comfortable. Old Mr. 
Sarradet even seemed grateful to Arthur himself for not 
having deprived him prematurely of a daughter who had 
developed into such a valuable asset, and been ultimately 
disposed of to so much greater advantage; at least some 
warrant for this impression might be found in the mix- 
ture of extreme friendliness and sly banter with which 
he entertained the visitor until Marie made her appear- 
ance. As soon as she came, she managed to get rid of 
her father very promptly; she felt instinctively that the 
triumphant note was out of place. 

Yet she could not hide the great contentment which 
possessed her; native sincerity made such concealment 
impossible. Arthur saw her enviable state, and, while he 
smiled, honestly rejoiced. The old sense of comrade- 
290 


RATHER ROMANTIC! 


ship revived in him; he remembered how much happi- 
ness he had owed her. The last silly remnant of conde- 
scending surprise at her choice vanished. 

“It does one good to see you so happy 1’^ he declared. 
“I bask in the rays, Marie 1’^ 

“I hope you’ll often come and bask — afterwards.” 

“I will, if you’ll let me. We must go on being friends. 
I want to be better friends with Sidney.” 

She smiled rather significantly. Arthur laughed. “Oh, 
that’s all over long ago — I was an ass ! I mean I want 
really to know him better.” 

“He’ll be very pleased, though he’s still a little afraid 
of you, I expect. He has improved very much, you 
know. He’s so much more — well, responsible. And 
think what he’s done for us I” 

“I know. Joe told me. And he’s going into the busi- 
ness ?” 

“He’s going to be the business, I think,” she answered, 
laughing. 

“Splendid ! And here am I, still a waster I I must get 
Sidney to reform me too, I think.” 

“I don’t know about that. I expect nobody’s allowed 
to interfere with you 1” She smiled roguishly, and asked 
in banter : “How is the wonderful cousin? You’ve been 
staying with her, haven’t you ?” 

Arthur started; the smile left his face. The question 
was like a sudden blow to him. But of course Marie 
knew nothing of the disaster; she imagined him to be 
still happily and gaily adoring. She would know soon, 
though — all the world would; she would read the hard 
ugly fact in the papers, or hear of it in unkind gossip. 

“Of course you haven’t heard. There’s been trouble. 
She’s left us. She’s gone away.” 

291 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


For the first time the Christian name by which she 
thought of him passed her lips in her eagerness of sym- 
pathy : 

^Arthur !” 

“Yes; about a month ago now. You remember the 
man she was lunching with that day — Oliver Wyse? 
He’s taken her away.” 

“Oh, but how terrible ! Forgive me for — for !” 

“There’s nothing to forgive. You couldn’t know. But 
it’ll be common property soon. You — ^you mustn’t think 
too badly of her, Marie.” 

But Marie came of a stock that holds by the domestic 
virtues — for women, at all events. She said nothing; 
she pursed up her lips ominously. Was she too going to 
talk about “the unfortunate woman”? No, she was 
surely too just to dispose of the matter in that summary 
fashion! If she understood, she would do justice. The 
old desire for her sympathy revived in him — for sym- 
pathy of mind ; he wanted her to look at the affair as he 
did. To that end she must know more of Bernadette, 
more of Godfrey and of Oliver Wyse — things that the 
world at large would never know, though the circle of 
immediate friends might be well enough aware of them. 
He tried to hint some of these things to her, in rather 
halting phrases about uncongeniality, want of tastes in 
common, not “hitting it off,” and so forth. But Marie 
was not much disposed to listen. She would not be at 
pains to understand. Her concern was for her friend. 

“I’m only thinking what it must have meant to you — 
what it must mean,” she said. “Because you were so 
very, very fond of her, weren’t you ? When did you hear 
of it?” 

“I was in the house when it happened.” 

292 


RATHER ROMANTIC! 


Now she listened while he told how Bernadette had 
gone — told all save his own madness. 

“And you had to go through that Marie murmured. 

“I deserved it. I’d made such a fool of myself,” he 
said. 

His self-reproach told her enough of his madness; 
nay, she read into it even more than the truth. 

“How could she let you, when she loved another man 
all the time ?” she cried. 

“She never thought about me in that way for a mo- 
ment. And I ” He broke off. He would not tell 

the exact truth ; but neither would he lie to Marie. 

She judged the case in its obvious aspect — a flirt cruel- 
ly reckless, a young man enticed and deluded. 

“I wouldn’t have believed it of her! You deserve and 
you’ll get something better than that! Don’t waste an- 
other thought on her, Arthur.” 

“Never mind about me. I want you to see how it hap- 
pened that Bernadette could ” 

“Oh, Bernadette !” Her voice rang in scorn over the 
name. “Will nothing cure you?” 

He smiled, though ruefully. This was not now cold 
condemnation of his old idol ; it was a burst of generous 
indignation over a friend’s wrong. Bernadette’s treat- 
ment of her husband, her child, her vows, was no longer 
in Marie’s mind ; it was the usage of her friend. Could 
the friend be angry at that? 

“Time’ll cure me, I suppose — as much as I want to be 
cured,” he said. “And you’re just the same jolly good 
friend you always were, Marie. I came to wish you joy, 
not to whine about myself — only you happened to ask 
after her, and I couldn’t very well hold my tongue about 
it. Only do remember that, whatever others may have, 

293 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


I have no grievance — no cause of complaint. Anything 
that’s happened to me I brought on myself.” 

No use! He saw that, and smiled hopelessly over it. 
Marie was resolved on having him a victim; he had to 
give in to her. She had got the idea absolutely fixed in 
that tenacious mind of hers. He turned back to the legiti- 
mate purpose of his visit. 

'^And when is the wedding to be ?” 

''In about six weeks. You’ll come, won’t you, Mr. 
Usle?” 

But Arthur had noticed what she called him, when 
moved by sympathy. "Don’t go back to that. You called 
me 'Arthur’ just now.” 

"Did I? I didn’t notice. But I shall like to call you 
Arthur, if I may.” She gave him her hand with the 
frankest heartiness. "Arthur” felt himself established 
in a simple and cordial friendship; it was not quite the 
footing on which "Mr. Lisle” had stood. Hopes and 
fears, dreams and sentiment, were gone from her 
thoughts of him ; a great good-will was the residuum. 

Perhaps she was generous to give so much, and Arthur 
lucky to receive it; and perhaps the news of Berna- 
dette’s misdeeds made the measure of it greater. What- 
ever might have been the case previously, it was now plain 
as day that, in any respect in which Arthur’s past con- 
duct needed excuse, he had not really been a free agent. 
He had been under a delusion, a spell, a wicked domina- 
tion. Did ever so fair a face hide such villainy? 

The tidings of Arthur’s tragedy went forth to the Sar- 
radet household and the Sarradet circle. Sidney Bars- 
low heard of it with a decorous sympathy which masked 
a secret snigger. Amabel twittered over it, with a new 
reminiscence of her Paolo — only that ended differently! 

294 


RATHER ROMANTIC! 


Joe Halliday had strange phrases in abundance, through 
which he strove to express a Byronic recognition of love’s 
joy and woe. He told Miss Ayesha Layard, and thereby 
invested handsome Mr. Lisle with a new romantic inter- 
est. The story of the unhappy passion and its end, the 
flight in early morning of the guilty pair, reached even 
the ears of Mr. Claud Beverley, who sorrowed as a man 
that such things should happen, and deplored as an artist 
that they should happen in that way. 

“There need have been no trouble. Why weren’t they 
all open and sensible about it?” he demanded of Miss 
Layard — very incautiously. 

“Because there’s a B in both — and another in your 
bonnet, old man !” the irrepressible lady answered, to his 
intense disgust. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


IN THE HANDS OF THE GODS 

Arthur went to several more rehearsals, but as they 
progressed, as the production took shape and final 
form, they became to his unaccustomed mind painfully 
exciting, so full of ups and downs, now ominous of de- 
feat, now presaging glorious victory. What were to the 
old hands ordinary incidents and everyday vicissitudes 
were to him tragedies or triumphs. If Mr. Etheringham 
said '‘That’s better,” or “Well, we’ve got something like 
it, at last,” he swelled with assurance, and his pockets 
with imaginary bullion. Whereas if Mr. Etheringham 
flung his script down on the table and exclaimed, “Well, 
it’s not my money, thank God!” — or If it appeared that 
there was no sort of chance of the scenery being ready 
(and there very seldom is), or if the author looked more 
melancholy than usual (and Mr. Beverley had an ex- 
traordinary and apparently inexhaustible gift for cres- 
cendoes of melancholy) — Arthur concluded that all was 
“up,” and that the shutters would soon follow the general 
example. In view of the vital bearing which success 
had upon his financial position, the strain was great, al- 
most too exciting and thrilling for endurance. More 
than once he swore that he would not go near the place 
again — till “the night.” But he could not keep his oath. 
The fascination of the venture drew him back. 

Besides he was attracted to his co-adventurers : to 
296 


IN THE HANDS OF THE GODS 


fiery Mr. Ether ingham, with his relentless energy, his 
passionate pessimism and furious outbursts; to the mel- 
ancholy author, surveying, as it were, a folly of his youth 
and reckoning on the stupidity of the public to release 
him from “the office” and let him “do” real life; to the 
leading man, war-worn hero of a hundred farces, whose 
gray locks were to turn to raven black and whose girth 
must suffer hard constriction to dimensions that became a 
youthful lover — on the night; to Miss Ayesha Layard 
with the audacious silliness which her laughter and her 
impudent pug-nose made so strangely acceptable. Even 
though Arthur had really no part in it all, and nothing 
to do but sit and watch and smoke, he could not keep 
away — and he rejoiced when somebody would come and 
sit by, and exchange opinions. It says much for his reso- 
lutions of reform that, in spite of all, he spent several 
hours every day at chambers, trying to bend his mind to 
Benjamin on Sales and, by virtue of the human interest 
of that remarkable work, succeeding better than was to 
be expected. 

Amid these occupations and distractions the great trou- 
ble which had come upon him was no longer the continual 
matter of his thoughts. The sense of loss and the con- 
viction of folly — ^the two were inseparably united in con- 
sciousness — became rather enemies lurking in the recesses 
of his mind, ready to spring out at him in hours of idle- 
ness or depression. To prevent or evade their attack was 
a task to which he set himself more instinctively than of 
deliberate purpose; but in fact the fear of them — the 
absolute need of keeping them down unless he were to 
lose heart — cooperated with the good resolutions he had 
made and with the new interests which had come into 
his life. To seek fresh objects of effort and to lay him- 
20 297 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


self open to a new set of impressions — ^here rather than 
in brooding, or remorse, or would-be philosophizing, lay 
the path of salvation for a spirit young, ardent, and elas- 
tic, healthily averse from mental hypochondria, from 
nursing and cosseting its wounds. He was in the mood 
of a football player who, sore from a hack and shaken 
by a hard tackle, picks himself up and rushes to take his 
place in the scrimmage. 

Three days before ''the night” — that date now served 
him for a calendar — he received a hasty summons from 
Esther Norton Ward. The lease of the Lisles’ house in 
Hill Street was to be sold, and Judith Arden had come up 
to town, to settle matters relating to the furniture : some 
was to be disposed of, some sent to Hilsey. The Nor- 
ton Wards were at home, the prospective candidate being 
■engaged in an electoral campaign in his prospective con- 
stituency, which could be "worked” most easily from 
London; Judith was to stay a few days with them. 
Though Norton Ward himself would be away speech- 
making, the two ladies begged the pleasure of Arthur’s 
company that evening. 

"Then Judith will be in town on the night,” thought 
Arthur. His eye gleamed with a brilliant inspiration. On 
the night he would be the proud possessor of a box at 
the Burlington Theater — that, at least, his thousand 
pounds gave him. He instantly determined to invite his 
friends to share it with him. He added this invitation 
of his own when he sent his note accepting Esther’s. 

"But how comes he to be having boxes at first nights ?” 
asked Esther. 

"Oh, don’t you know? He’s put up some money for 
the play. Quite a lot, in fact,” said Judith, with a laugh 
which sounded apologetic. 

298 


IN THE HANDS OF THE GODS 


Esther raised her brows. That was not the Norton 
Ward idea of the way to the Woolsack. “Can he afford 
to — to do that sort of thing? To take chances like 
that?’’ 

“Oh, of course not! He’s quite poor. But, Esther, I 
do pray it’ll be a success! He does deserve a turn of 
good luck. He’s been splendid to us all at Hilsey.” 

“He was making a great goose of himself, when I was 
at Hilsey.” 

“That was before. I meant he was splendid after- 
wards. Fancy seeing the play, after all! He’s often 
talked to me about it.” 

“You’re very good friends with him now?” 

“Well, look what we’ve been through together! If the 
piece doesn’t succeed, I’m afraid it’ll be a serious busi- 
ness for him. He’ll be very hard up.” 

Esther shook her head over Arthur when he came to 
dinner. “I knew you were a man of fashion! Now 
you’re blossoming out as a theatrical speculator ! Where 
does the law come in ?” 

“Next Wednesday morning at the very latest — and 
whatever has happened to Did You Say Mrs.? Only, 
if it’s a tumble, I shan’t have the money to go circuit, and 
— well, I hope your husband will get his rent, but I ex- 
pect he’d be wiser to kick me out of his chambers.” 

“As bad as that? Then we really must pray, Judith, 
for Frank’s sake as well as Arthur’s !” 

“Do tell us about the play ! Give us an idea of it.” 

“Oh, well, the plot’s not the great thing, you know. 
It’s the way it’s written. And Ayesha Layard and Willie 
Spring are so good. Well, there’s a dancing club — a re- 
spectable one. A man may take a man, but he may only 
take a woman if she’s his wife or sister. The man 
299 


A YOUNG MAN’S Y; 


lR 


Spring plays is persuaded to take a friend and his best 
girl in, and to let the girl call herself Mrs. Skewes — 
Skewes is Spring's name in the piece. Well, of course, as 
soon as he’s done that, simply everybody Skewes knows 
begins to turn up — his rich uncle, the rich gprl he wants 
to marry, his village parson — all the lot. And then the 
other man’s people weigh in, and everybody gets mixed 
— and so on. And there’s a comic waiter who used to 
know Flo (Ayesha Layard plays Flo, of course), and in- 
sists on writing to her mother to say she’s married. Oh, 
it’s all awfully well worked out !” 

'‘I’m sure it’ll be very amusing,” said Esther Norton 
Ward politely. “But isn’t it rather like that farce they 
had at the — the Piccadilly, wasn’t it? — a year or two 
ago?” 

“Oh, no! I remember the piece you mean; but that 
wasn’t a dancing club — that was an hotel.” 

“So it was. I forgot,” said Esther, smiling. 

Arthur burst into a laugh. “I’m a fool! Of course 
it’s been done a hundred times. But Beverley’s got in 
a lot of good stuff. In the second act Flo has hidden in 
Skewes’ bedroom, and of course everybody turns up 
there, and he has to get rid of them by pretending he’s 
going to have a bath — ^keeps taking his coat off, to make 
’em clear out.” Arthur chuckled at the remembrance. 
“But of course 'Ayesha’s the finest thing. Her innocent 
cheek is ripping!” 

“Why does she want to hide in his room ?” 

“She took another woman’s bag from the club by acci- 
dent, and the manager has his suspicions about her and 
consults the police. But I won’t tell you any more, or 
it’ll spoil the evening.” 

“I think we know quite enough to go on with,” laughed 
300 


IN THE HANDS OF THE GODS 


Esther. ^T wish Frank could come with us, but he’s got 
a meeting every night next week. Why don’t you go 
down with him one night ? I think it would amuse you.” 

'T will, like a shot, if he’ll take me. I’m not sure, 
though, that I’m a Conservative.” 

‘‘That doesn’t matter. Besides Frank will make you 
one. He’s very persuasive.” 

After Arthur had said good night and gone, the two 
women sat in silence for a few minutes. 

“It sounds awful stuff, Judith,” said Esther at last, 
in a tone of candid regret. 

“Yes, it does. But still those things do succeed often.” 

“Oh, yes, and we’ll hope!” She glanced at Judith. 
“He doesn’t seem very — lovelorn !” 

“He was pretty bad at first.” She smiled faintly. “I 
had to be awfully disagreeable. Well, I’m quite good at 
it. Ever since then he’s behaved wonderfully. But I 
don’t know what he feels.” 

“Well, I hope he’ll settle down to work, after all this 
nonsense.” 

“He hasn’t got any work to settle to, poor boy I” 

“Frank says it always comes if you watch and wait.” 

“I expect it’s the successful men who say that.” They 
had all been gay at dinner, but now Judith’s voice sound- 
ed depressed and weary. Esther moved nearer to her 
side on the sofa. 

“You’ve had a pretty hard time of it too, haven’t you?” 
she asked sympathetically. 

“It may be a funny thing, but I miss Bernadette dread- 
fully. She was always an interest, anyhow, wasn’t she? 
And without her — with just Godfrey and Margaret — 
Hilsey’s awfully flat. You see, we’re none of us people 
with naturally high spirits. Arthur is, and they used to 
301 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


crop out in spite of everything; so it wasn’t so bad 
while he was there. Godfrey and Margaret are always 
wanting to press him to come back, but he must stay and 
work, mustn’t he ?” 

Esther took a sidelong glance at her — rather an in- 
quisitive glance — ^but she said no more than “Of course 
he must. He can come to you at Christmas — unless he’s 
got another farce or some other nonsense in his head.” 

Esther had taken Bernadette’s flight with just a shrug 
of her shoulders; that had seemed to her really the only 
way to take it. She had not been surprised — looking 
back on her Sunday at Hilsey and remembering Berna- 
dette’s manner, she now declared that she had expected 
the event — and it was no use pretending to be much 
shocked. To her steady and calm temperament, very 
strong in affection but a stranger to passion, a creature 
of Bernadette’s waywardness could assert no real claim 
to sympathy, however much her charm might be acknowl- 
edged. She was surprised that Judith should miss her 
so much, and with so much regret. For Arthur’s infatu- 
ation she still could have only scorn, however kindly the 
scorn might be. In her eyes Bernadette had never been 
really a wife, and hardly in any true sense a mother ; by 
her flight she merely abdicated positions which she had 
never effectively filled. She would not even give her 
credit for courage in going away, in facing the scandal; 
there she preferred to see only Oliver Wyse’s strong 
hand and imperious will. 

On the other hand, there was a true sympathy of mind 
between her and Judith, and she was grieved, and rather 
indignant, at the heavy burden which the train of events 
had laid on Judith. She asked something better for her 
than to be merely the crutch of the crippled household 
302 


IN THE HANDS OF THE GODS 


at Hilsey — for which again her self-reliant nature and 
courageous temper had more pity than esteem. It 
would be a shame if Judith sank into a household hack, 
bearing the burden which properly belonged to Ber- 
nadette's pretty shoulders. But Judith herself be- 
trayed no sense of hardship; she took what she was 
doing as a matter of course, though she did regret Berna- 
dette’s loss and Arthur’s absence. She pined for the 
vanished elements of excitement and gaiety in the house- 
hold, but none the less she meant to stick to it. So Esther 
read her mind. But there was another question — one of 
proportion. How much of the pining was for Bernadette 
and how much for Arthur ? 

It was dress rehearsal. Mr. Etheringham was a mar- 
tinet about admitting people to this function ; there were 
only half a dozen or so scattered about the stalls — and 
the author prowled restlessly up and down the pit. Mr. 
Etheringham sat by Arthur, his hat over his fiery eyes, 
regarding the performance with a sort of gloomy resent- 
ment. He interfered only once or twice — his work was 
done — but Arthur heard him murmur, more than once 
or twice: “Damned bad — too late to change!” — and 
therewith he sank a little lower down in his seat Arthur 
did not laugh much now, though he expected to to-mor- 
row; he was too busy thinking whether other people 
would be amused to be amused himself. All he really 
knew was that Willie Spring was acting his very heart 
out, trying to get every ounce out of the part ; and so was 
Ayesha, for all her air of utter unconcern. He ventured 
on an observation to this effect to Mr. Etheringham when 
the curtain fell on the first act. 

“They’re all right. If it fails, it’s my fault— and Bev- 
erley’s.” He rushed off “behind,” and his voice was 

303 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


heard through the curtain in exhortation and correction. 

Joe Halliday came across from the other side of the 
house and sat down in the vacant seat. “Right as rain !” 
he said emphatically. “You may order your motor car, 
Arthur.” 

“I think I won't actually give the order till Wednesday 
morning, old fellow.” 

“May as well. It’s a cert. Big money! Wish I had 
your share in it.” 

“I sometimes wish I had mine out,” Arthur confessed. 

“Oh, rot, man ! It's the stroke of your life, this is.” 

Mr. Ether ingham returned, glared at the imperturbable 
Joe, and selected another stall. Second Act. 

The second act went well, but when they came to set 
the third there was a bad breakdown in the scenery. A 
long, long wait — and Mr. Etheringham audible from be- 
hind the curtain, raging furiously. Mr. Beverley emerged 
from the pit and came up behind Joe Halliday and 
Arthur. 

“Just my luck 1” he observed, in the apathetic calm of 
utter despair. 

“Jolly good thing it happened to-night, and not to- 
morrow I” exclaimed Joe. 

“But it probably will happen to-morrow too I” the au- 
thor insisted. 

Arthur was laughing at the two when Miss Ayesha 
Layard, in the third of her wonderful frocks, came in 
front and tripped up to them. 

“If anybody’s cold, they’d better go behind and listen 
to old Langley,” she remarked, as she sank into the stall 
by Arthur’s side. She had a large towel tied round her 
waist, and adjusted it carefully beneath and round her 
before she trusted her frock to the mercies of the seat. 

304 


IN THE HANDS OF THE GODS 


‘T once spoilt a frock in my early days, and old Bram- 
ston boxed my ears for it,’" she explained to Arthur. 
Then she turned round and regarded Mr. Beverley with 
an air of artless and girlish admiration. ‘‘To think that 
he wrote this masterpiece ! He who is known to and will 
soon be adored by the public as Claud Beverley, but 
who in private life 

'‘Shut up, will you!” commanded Mr. Beverley, with 

sudden and fierce fury. “If you do happen to — to ” 

He was in a difficulty for a phrase, and ended without 
finding it. “Well, you might have the decency to hold 
your tongue about it.” 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry ! Didn’t know it was such a secret 
as all that.” The offended man looked implacable. “If 
you don’t forgive me, I shall go and drown myself in 
that bath! Oh, well, he won’t, so never mind! Here, 
Joe, take him out and give him a drink. There’s just 
time before closing.” 

“First-rate idea !” Joe agreed cordially. “Come along, 
old chap.” Mr. Beverley allowed himself to be led 
away, mournfully yet faintly protesting. 

“Funny thing he should mind having his real name 
known, isn’t it? I’m sure I shouldn’t mind mine being 
known, if I had one, but I don’t think I have. I recol- 
lect being called ‘Sal’ at the theater. Old Bramston — 
the one who boxed my ears, as I said — named me. He’d 
been out in the East as a young man and liked reading 
about it. So, when he named me, he combined his in- 
formation, like the man in Dickens, and made up the 
name you see on the bills. It’ll descend to posterity in 
old Langley Etheringham’s memoirs. He’s writing them, 
his wife told me so. Well, what do you think of the 
theater — inside view — Mr. Lisle?” 

305 


A YOUNG IVIAN’S YEAR 


think it's extraordinarily interesting." 

‘^Fve been in it all my life, and I wouldn’t change. It 
takes your mind off things so — sort of gives you two 
lives. You come down here in the blues over your 
debts or your love affairs or something — and in five 
minutes you’re somebody else, or’’ — she gave a little 
laugh — '‘rotting somebody else, which is nearly as 
good.’’ 

“By Jove, that’s exactly what it does do!’’ cried Ar- 
thur. “It’s done me heaps of good.’’ 

“You’ll have got something for your money, anyhow, 
won’t you?’’ 

“Oh, but I want to get more than that !’’ 

“So do I !’’ she laughed. “I want the salary. But one 
never knows. This time to-morrow we may be waiting 
for the laughs that don’t come. You can always pretty 
well hear Willie asking for them in the proper places. 
And when they don’t come, it’s such a sell that it makes 
me want to giggle myself. It might work! What the 
notices call my infectious laughter!’’ 

“Well, that’s just what your laughter is.’’ 

“They catch a word like that from one another — like 
mumps or measles. I’m always ‘infectious,’ Willie’s al- 
ways ‘indefat’ — ‘indefatig’ — you know? I can never get 
to the end of it ! Bramston used to be ‘sterling’ always ; 
it made him just mad when he saw the word — used awful 
language.’’ She laughed “infectiously’’ at the recollec- 
tion. 

The hammering behind the curtain, which had been 
incessant during their talk, stopped. A sharp voice 
rang out: “Third Act!’’ There was a scurry of feet. 
Mr. Etheringham came in front, very hot and dis- 
heveled; Mr. Beverley reappeared, only to bolt into his 
306 


IN THE HANDS OF THE GODS 


burrow in the pit. Miss Layard rose to her feet, 
carefully lifting the precious frock well clear of her 
ankles. 

“What do you mean by keeping me waiting like this, 
Mr. Etheringham ?” she asked, with elaborate haughti- 
ness. 

But poor Mr. Etheringham was at the end of his 
tether — beyond repartee, even beyond fury. 

“For heaven’s sake, Ayesha, my dear, take hold of 
this damned third act, and pick it upT he implored, with 
the old Weary-Titan lift of his hands. 

“There is a bit of avoirdupois about it, isn’t there?” 
she remarked sympathetically. “All the same, it’s suf- 
fered a sea change under your accomplished hands, Lang- 
ley.” 

“Oh, get round, there’s a good girl, or you’ll keep the 
stage waiting.” 

“What one weak woman can do !” she said, with a nod 
and a smile as she turned away. 

Mr. Etheringham sank into a stall and lay back with 
his eyes shut. “I should like to have the blood of those 
stage hands,” Arthur heard him mutter. 

His eyes remained closed right through the act; he 
knew it too well to need to see it — every position, every 
speech, every inflection, every gesture. He did not speak, 
either; only his hands now and then rose up above his 
head and dropped again gently. When at last the cur- 
tain fell, he opened his eyes, took off his hat, smoothed 
his hair, replaced the hat, and turned to Arthur with a 
sudden expression of peace and relief on his stormy 
countenance. 

“Now it’s in the hands of the gods, Mr. Lisle,” he 
said. 


307 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Arthur was lighting a cigarette. In the intervals of 
the operation he asked: '‘Well, what do you think ?’" 

Mr. Etheringham looked at him with a tolerant smile. 
“Think ? My dear fellow, to-morrow’s the night ! What 
on earth’s the use of thinking?” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


TAKING MEDICINE 

‘‘Good night. Thanks awfully for coming, Mrs. Nor- 
ton Ward! And you too, Judith! Beg pardon? Oh, 
yes, I hope so — with just a few alterations. Wants a bit 
of pulling together, doesn’t it? What? Oh, yes, only 
quite a few — one fellow in the gallery really started it. 
What ? Oh, yes, up till then it was all right — yes, it will 
be really. I’m sure. Still I wish ” 

“Move up there !” from the policeman. 

“All the same, I wish Well, good night. See you 

soon, shan’t I?” 

Thus Arthur, outside the Burlington Theater, bade 
farewell to the two ladies who had honored his box with 
their presence — Arthur very suave, collected, smiling, 
easy, but rather pale in the face. Under pressure from 
the policeman Esther’s car drove off. 

Esther gave a long sigh of relief. Judith had thrown 
herself back in the other corner. 

“It was very kind of him to take us,” said Esther, “but 
really what a trying evening, Judith I At first it seemed 

all right — I laughed, anyhow — but then Oh, of 

course, they’d no business to boo; it’s rude and horrid. 
I was so sorry for them all — especially that pretty girl 
and the poor man who worked so hard. Still, you know, 
I couldn’t see that it was very funny.” 

No answer came from Judith’s corner. 

309 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


"‘And a farce ought to be funny, oughtn’t it?” Esther 
resumed. ^‘Some plays one goes to without expecting to 
be amused, of course, or — or even thrilled, or anything of 
that sort. One goes to be — to be — well, because of one’s 
interest in the drama. But I always look forward to a 
farce; I expect to enjoy myself at it.” 

Still no answer from Judith in the corner. 

‘‘And really I don’t think I’ll ever go again with any- 
body who’s got anything to do with the play. You felt 
him expecting you to laugh — and you couldn’t ! Or you 
laughed in the wrong place. He didn’t laugh much him- 
self, if you come to that. Too anxious perhaps! And 
when he went out between the acts and came back, and 
you asked him what the men were saying and he said, 
‘Oh, they always try to crab it I’ — well, that didn’t make 
it any more cheerful, did it ?” 

Response being still lacking, and Esther having pretty 
well exhausted her own impressions of the first night of 
Did You Say Mrs.? at the Burlington, she peered in- 
quiringly into the other corner of the car. 

“Are you asleep, Judith?” she asked. 

“No, I’m not asleep. Never mind me, Esther.” 

“Well, why don’t you say something?” 

“What is there to say?” 

Esther peered more perseveringly into the corner. 
Then she stretched out her hand toward the switch of the 
electric light. 

“Don’t!” said Judith very sharply. 

Esther’s eyes grew wide. “Why, you silly girl, I be- 
lieve you’re !” 

“Yes, I am, and it’s a very good thing to cry over. 
Think of all those poor people, working so hard, and — 
it’s all for nothing, I suppose ! And Arthur ! How brave 
310 



'Think of all those poor people — it’s all for nothing, I 
suppose !’ ” 




TAKING MEDICINE 


he was over it! He couldn't have been more — more at- 
tentive and — and gay if it had been the greatest success. 
But I knew what he was feeling. I laughed like a maniac 
— and my hands are sore. What's the use? Who's the 
idiot who wrote it?" 

‘‘Well, if you come to that, I daresay the poor man is 
just as much upset as Arthur Lisle is." 

Judith was in no mood for impartial justice. “Get- 
ting them to produce a thing like that is almost obtaining 
money under false pretenses. Why don't they know, 
Esther ?" 

“I'm sure I don't know. It's easy enough to tell when 
you see it." 

“I was awfully frightened even when he told us about 
it." 

“At dinner, you mean? Yes, so was I. But it was no 
use saying " 

“Oh, of course, it was no use saying anything about it ! 
What will he do now? Will he get any of his money 
back, I wonder!" Judith might be seen through the 
gloom dabbing her cheeks forlornly. “And I did think 
it was going to be a jolly evening!" she ended. 

“It wasn't that,'* Esther observed with ample emphasis. 
Protected by the gloom, she drew nearer to Judith, put 
her arm round her, and kissed her. “You mustn't mind 
so much," she whispered. “Men have to take tumbles all 
the time, and Arthur took his bravely." 

“Oh, after the other thing it is such hard luck! And 
I — we — didn't know how to — to help or console him. I 
wish Bernadette had been there! She'd have known 
how to do that." 

Esther frowned at the idea of this very desperate rem- 
edy. A forlorn silence fell on the car, till they reached 

311 


A YOUNG IVIAN’S YEAR 


home and got out. In the hall Esther laid a hand on 
Judith’s arm. 

‘Trank will be back by now. Are you equal to facing 
him?” she asked. 

“I’d sooner not, if you don’t mind. I shall go to bed.” 

“Don’t fret. Perhaps they will — ^pull it together, didn’t 
he say ? — really !” 

Judith shook her head mournfully and trailed off up- 
stairs to bed. The hostess stood watching her guest’s 
progress for a moment with what seemed a rather criti- 
cal eye, and then went into her husband’s study. 

Frank Norton Ward was seated in front of a tray, and 
was consuming cold beef and claret with an excellent 
appetite. An open-air meeting at seven, followed by a 
church bazaar (with “a few words” from the prospec- 
tive candidate) from eight-thirty till ten, had been his 
useful, honorable, but exhausting evening. 

“Well, here you are!” he greeted his wife cheerfully. 
“Had a good time, Esther?” 

His question opened the gates again to the doleful 
flood of Esther’s impressions. Her husband listened with 
a smile; to the detached mind a fiasco has always its 
amusing side, and Norton Ward was by no means par- 
ticularly concerned about Arthur or his fortunes. He 
finished his claret and lit his pipe during the sorrowful 
recital, and at the end of it remarked: “Well, it serves 
him right, really. That sort of thing won’t do him any 
good — it’s not his job — ^and perhaps now he’ll see it. 
Didn’t Judith come in with you?” 

“She’s gone to bed.” 

“Oh, has she? I say, I had a jolly good meeting to- 
night — though it’s supposed to be a Radical center. 
I ” 


312 


TAKING MEDICINE 


‘'She was reduced to tears, coming home in the car. 
Tears, Frank T 

‘That’s rather a strong order, isn’t it? She’ll be all 
right in the morning. The fact is, there’s been a good 
deal of trouble at the biscuit works, and since old 
Thorne’s a Liberal, his men *’ 

“She must be a good deal — well, interested in him to 
do that!” 

“ ^Wouldn’t mind giving him one in the eye. What? 

I beg your pardon, my dear ?” 

Even in the happiest marriages, husband and wife do 
not always pursue the same train of thought But Es- 
ther was very dutiful “Never mind! Tell me about 
the meeting,” she said. But she went on thinking of 
Judith and her tears. 

After he had seen his friends off, Arthur turned back 
into the lobby of the theater. The crowd, that destruc- 
tive crowd, was thinning quickly; at the tail-end of it 
there came, hurrying along, a figure vaguely familiar. 
The next instant its identity was established. There was 
no mistaking the tremor of the eye. It was Mr. Mayne, 
of Wills and Mayne, of Tiddes v. The Universal Omni- 
bus Company, Limited. As he came up, he saw Arthur, 
and gave him a quick glance and a faint smile, but no ex- 
press recognition. He hurried by, as it were furtively, 
and before Arthur had time to claim acquaintance disap- 
peared into the street. “Shouldn’t have imagined he 
was much of a first-nighter!” thought Arthur, as he 
made his way toward a little group standing by the Box 
Office. 

The two Sarradet men were there, talking in low 
voices but volubly, gesticulating, looking very angry and 
somehow unusually French. Marie stood with her arm 

21 313 


A YOUNG IVIAN’S YEAR 


in Sidney Barslow’s, rather as if she needed his support, 
and the big man himself, smiling composedly, seemed as 
though he were protecting the family. Fronting them 
stood Joe Halliday, smoking a cigarette and listening to 
the voluble talk with a pleasant smile. 

But when the two men saw Arthur, their talk stopped 
— silenced perhaps by the presence of a pecuniary disas- 
ter greater than that which had befallen the Sarradet 
house. Joe seized his opportunity and remarked : “After 
all, Mr. Sarradet, you didn’t exactly suppose you were 
investing in a gilt-edged security !” 

“I say, where’s poor old Beverley ?” Arthur asked. 

“Behind, I think — ^talking it over with Etheringham. 
Well, let ’em talk!” He shaped his lips for a whistle, 
but thought better of it. “We’ll have another flutter 
some day, Mr. Sarradet!” he remarked, with an air of 
genial encouragement. 

“Flutter!” The old man was choking with indigna- 
tion. “If I ever !” 

“Well, we’d best be getting home,” Sidney interposed, 
with an authority which made the suggestion an order. 
“Come along, Marie.” 

“Bring Pops, Raymond,” Marie directed. She gave 
her free hand to Arthur, raising mournful eyes to his. 
“What a terrible experience !” she murmured. 

“He calls it a flutter!” A fragment of old Sarradet’s 
indignation was blown back from the pavement into the 
lobby. 

“Not sports !” Joe mused regretfully. “Not what I call 
sports, Arthur ! I’m really rather sorry we didn’t manage 
to rope old Sidney in too. Looking so dashed wise, 
wasn’t he? Come along, let’s find Claud — and I want to 
see Ayesha.” 


314 


TAKING MEDICINE 


‘‘I suppose we shall have to settle what’s to be done 
about it, shan’t we?” 

“We’ll hear what Langley thinks.” 

They found a little party in Mr. Etheringham’s room — 
that gentleman himself, standing with his back to the 
fireplace, smoking a cigar; Willie Spring, an exhausted 
volcano, lying back in a chair, staring at the ceiling ; Miss 
Ayesha Layard on the sofa, smiling demurely; and the 
author seated at the table with the script of the play in 
front of him ; he was turning over the leaves quickly and 
with an appearance of eager industry. 

“Now we know what to think, don’t we, Mr. Lisle? 
They’ve done our. thinking for us.” Mr. Etheringham 
smiled quite pleasantly. He was not at all fiery now. 

Arthur laid his hand on Mr. Beverley’s shoulder. “It’s 
an infernal shame, old chap. I’m most awfully sorry.” 

“You gentlemen are two of the principal shareholders,” 
Mr. Etheringham went on to Arthur and Joe. “Perhaps 
you’d like to talk over the situation privately?” 

“We’re all right as we are — glad of words of wisdom 
from any of you. How do we stand, Langley?” said 
Joe, sitting down on the sofa by Miss Layard. “What’s 
the situation?” 

“Well, you know that as well as I do. There’s the 
production to be paid — about twelve hundred, I reckon — 
and we run into about eight hundred a week.” 

“And what — if any — ^business shall we play to?” 

“You can’t tell that. You can only guess — and you’d 
better not guess high. I should say myself that the 
money might last a fortnight— possibly three weeks. 
Some of ’em’ll probably look in now and then, you know 
— and even if we paper the whole house the bars bring in 
a bit.” 


315 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“I’d go a bit more,” said Joe, “only the truth is I 
haven’t got a bob — absolutely stony!” He jingled the 
money in his pocket. “Hear that ? — it’s the last of it !” 

“If you think there’s any chance,” Arthur began 
eagerly, “I think I could ” 

Mr. Willie Spring’s eyes came down from the ceil- 
ing and sought those of Mr. Etheringham; Mr. Spring 
also shook his head very slightly and smiled a tired 
smile. 

“I don’t think we’d better talk about that at this stage,” 
said Mr. Etheringham. “At least, that’s my advice. Of 
course, if later on the business warranted the hope 
that ” 

“Well, anyhow, let’s go on as long as the money lasts,” 
said Arthur. 

“All right. Can you be ready with those cuts and the 
new lines by to-morrow afternoon, Beverley?” 

“Yes.” He had never stopped turning over the pages 
of the script. 

“Very well. I’ll call a rehearsal for two o’clock.” 

Ayesha Layard rose from the sofa. “Well, good 
night,” she said. 

“May I wait for you?” asked Joe. 

“Yes, if you like, but I want to speak to Mr. Lisle 
first.” As she passed Arthur, she took hold of his arm 
and led him to her dressing-room. “Just a second 1” she 
said to her dresser. When the woman had gone out, 
she planted herself in the chair before the looking-glass 
and regarded Arthur with a smile. “Were you really 
ready to put up more money?” she asked. “Are you a 
millionaire? Because you’re not in love with me, and 
that’s the only other thing that might explain it.” 

“I hate being beat,” Arthur protested. 

316 


TAKING MEDICINE 


^'Happened to you before, hasn’t it? In other direc- 
tions, I mean.” 

Just as he was looking at her, wondering how much 
she knew — for something she evidently knew — a knock 
came at the door, and the dresser appeared with a tele- 
gram in her hand. ''You’re Mr. Lisle, sir, aren’t you? 
This came for you just as the curtain went up, and it 
got forgotten till now.” She gave it to Arthur and went 
out again. 

"May I read it?” He opened it. 

Good luck to you to-night. I wish I could be with you, 
but circumstances don’t permit — Bernadette. 

The dispatch came from Genoa. Bernadette had 
looked out for the doings of Did You Say Mrs.? in the 
English papers! 

"Yes, it’s happened to me before,” said Arthur, smil- 
ing rather grimly. He put the piece of paper into her 
hands. "A telegram of good wishes — come to hand 
rather late.” 

"Bernadette ? A lady friend ? Oh, I remember ! The 
lady friend, isn’t it? She thinks of you! Touching!” 

"I find it so, rather. But I say, aren’t you tired to 
death?” 

"Next door! But I just wanted to say good-by to 
you. I like you, you know. You’re pleasant, and you 
lose like a gentleman, and you haven’t rounded on Willie 
and me, and told us it’s all our fault.” 

"Your fault indeed ! You were splendid. And ma3m’t 
it be just good night, and not good-by, Miss Layard?” 

"Call it which you like. I know what it will be. This 
isn’t your line, really. Good night, then — and don’t give 

317 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Joe any more money. He’d break the Bank of England, 
if they’d let him.” 

won’t, then. And I like you, if I may say so. And 
we’re all tremendously in your debt.” He raised the 
hand she gave him to his lips and kissed it in a courtly 
fashion. 

He looked handsome as he did it, and she was amused 
that he should do it. She looked up at him with danc- 
ing eyes and a merry laugh. “Kiss me good-by, then, 
really, if you mean it — and don’t be too disgusted with 
all of us to-morrow morning !” 

He kissed her cheek, laughing. revoir! I shan’t 

be disgusted with you anyhow. Good night.” 

He walked to the door, and was just going to open it 
when she spoke again. “Mr. Lisle!” 

“Yes.” He turned round. She was standing by the 
table now; her face was very bright; she seemed to 
struggle against another spasm of laughter. “In the 
stress of business you’ve forgotten your telegram from — 
Bernadette 1” She waved the missive in her hand, hold- 
ing her mutinous lips closely together. 

Arthur stood for a moment, looking at the lady and 
the missive. Then he broke into a hearty roar; she let 
herself go too ; their laughter rang through the little 
room. The door was flung open, and Joe Halliday 
appeared on the threshold in a state of some indigna- 
tion. 

“Pretty good to keep me waiting out in the cold while 
you — what have you been up to, Ayesha?” 

“Nothing that concerns you, Joe. I’ve been giving Mr. 
Lisle some medicine.” 

“I should have thought we’d all had enough of that 
to-night !” 

318 


TAKING MEDICINE 


a different sort — and different from any I shall 
give you. But I think it did him good, from the symp- 
toms. Oh, here’s your wire, Mr. Lisle!” 

She seemed to sparkle with mischief as she gave it to 
him. *‘Now mind you don’t give Joe any medicine!” he 
said. 

*‘The bottle’s finished, for to-night at all events.” With 
this gay promise and a gay nod she let him go. 

Pleased at the promise — quite absurdly pleased at it 
in spite of its strict time-limit — and amused with the 
whole episode, he put Bernadette’s telegram in his 
pocket, and walked along towards the stage door, smiling 
happily. He was not thinking about the telegram, nor 
about the fiasco of the evening, nor of his thousand 
pounds, very little or none of which would ever find its 
way back into his pocket. The emotions which each and 
all of these subjects for contemplation might have been 
expected to raise had been put to rout. A very fine medi- 
cine, that of Miss Ayesha Layard’s! 

He said good night to the doorkeeper and gave him a 
sovereign; he said good night to the fireman and gave 
him ten shillings; it was no moment for small econo- 
mies, and he was minded to march out with colors flying.. 
But he was not quite done with the Burlington Theater 
yet. Outside was a tall figure which moved to his side 
directly he appeared. It was Mr. Claud Beverley, carry- 
ing his play in a large square envelope. 

“Are you going anywhere. Lisle?” he asked. 

“Only home — up Bloomsbury way.” 

“May I walk with you? The tube at Tottenham Court 
Road suits me to get home.” 

“Why, of course! Come along, old chap.” They 
started off together up Shaftesbury Avenue. Mr. Bev- 

319 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


erley said nothing till they had got as far as the Palace 
Theater. Then he managed to unburden his heart. 

^T want to tell you how sorry I am to — ^to have let you 
in like this, Lisle. I feel pretty badly about it, I can tell 
you, for all their sakes. But youVe been specially — ^well, 
you took me on trust, and Pve let you in.” 

*‘My dear fellow, it’s all right. It’s much worse for 
you than for me. But I hope the new play will put you 
all right.” 

The author would not be silenced. ‘^And I want to 
say that if ever I can do you a turn — a real good turn — 
I’ll do it. If it’s to be done. I’ll do it !” 

‘T’m sure you will,” said Arthur, who did not in the 
least see what Mr. Beverley could do for him, but was 
touched by his evident sincerity. 

“There’s my hand on it,” said Mr. Beverley, with 
solemnity. There in Charing Cross Road they shook 
hands on the bargain. “Don’t forget I Good night. Lisle. 
Don’t forget!” He darted away across the road and 
vanished into the bowels of the earth. 

Arthur Lisle strolled on to his lodgings, humming a 
tune. Good sort, weren’t they, all of them? Suddenly 
he yawned and became aware of feeling very tired. 
Been an evening, hadn’t it? 

Half an hour later he tumbled into bed with a happy 
smile still on his lips. He could not get the picture of 
that girl waving the telegram at him out of his head. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


TEARS AND A SMILE 

In the end the Syndicate left to Joe Halliday the re- 
sponsibility of deciding on the future of the unfortunate 
farce, so far as it had a future on which to decide. On 
mature reflection Joe was for acting on the sound busi- 
ness principle of ''cutting a loss,” and the turn of events 
reinforced his opinion. They had taken the Burlington 
for four weeks certain, and the liability for rent was a 
serious fact and a heavy item to reckon with. Another 
dramatic venture wanted a home, and Joe had the op- 
portunity of subletting the theater for the last two weeks 
of the term. By and with the advice of Mr. Etheringham 
he closed with the offer. Did You Say Mrs.? dragged on 
for its fortnight, never showing vitality enough to inspire 
any hope of its recovering from the rude blow of the 
first night. In the daytime new figures filled the stage 
of the Burlington, new hopes and fears centered there. 
Only Mr. Etheringham remained, producing the new ven- 
ture with the same fiery and inexhaustible energy, lift- 
ing dead weights with his hands, toiling, moiling, in per- 
petual strife. Gone soon were all the others who had 
become so familiar, from the great Mr. Spring, the Inde- 
fatigable, downwards, some to other engagements, some 
left "out” — debris from the wreck of the unhappy Did 
You Say Mrs.? 

Gone too, soon, was Miss Ayesha Layard with her 
321 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


infectious laugh. For her sake Arthur had sat through 
the farce once again — not even for her sake twice, so 
inconceivably flat had it now become to him. He had 
gone round and seen her, but she had other guests and 
no real conversation was possible. Then he saw in the 
papers that she was to go to America; a manager from 
that country had come to see the piece, and, though he 
did not take that, he did take Miss Layard, with whose 
talents he was much struck. He offered a handsome 
salary, and she jumped at it. Joe let her go three days 
before the end of the hopeless little run. One of the last 
items of the Syndicate’s expenditure was a bouquet of 
flowers, presented to her at Euston on the morning of 
her departure. Arthur went to see her off, found her 
surrounded by folk strange to him, had just a handclasp, 
a hearty greeting, a merry flash from her eyes, and, as 
he walked off, the echo of her laugh for a moment in 
his ears. The changes and chances of theatrical life car- 
ried her out of his orbit as suddenly as she had come into 
it; she left behind her, as chief legacy, just that vivid 
memory which linked her so fantastically with Berna- 
dette. 

So the whole thing seemed to him to end — the Syndi- 
cate, the speculation, his voyage into the unknown seas 
of the theater. It was all over, shattered by a blow al- 
most as sudden, almost as tragical, as that which had 
smitten his adoration itself. Both of these things, always 
connected together for him by subtle bonds of thought 
and emotion, making together the chief preoccupation 
of the last six months of his life, now passed out of 
it, and could occupy his days no longer. They had 
come like visions — Bernadette in her barouche, the glit- 
tering thousands dangled in Fortune’s hand — and 
322 


TEARS AND A SMILE 


seemed now to depart in like fashion, transitory and un- 
substantial. 

Yet to Arthur Lisle they stood as the two greatest 
things that had up to now happened in his life; the 
most significant and the most vivid. Set together — as 
they insisted on being set together from the beginning 
to the end, from the first impulse of ambition roused by 
Bernadette to the coming of her telegram on that mo- 
mentous evening — they made his first great venture, his 
most notable experience. They had revealed and devel- 
oped his nature, plumbed feeling, and tested courage. He 
was different now from Marie Sarradet’s placid, content- 
ed, half-condescending wooer, different from him who 
had worshiped Bernadette with virgin eyes — different 
now even from the forsaken and remorseful lover of that 
black hour at Hilsey. He had received an initiation — a 
beginning of wisdom, an opening of the eyes, a glimpse 
of what a man’s life may be and hold and do for him. 
He had seen lights glimmering on the surface of other 
lives, and now and then, however dimly and fitfully, re- 
vealing their deeper waters. 

Sitting among the ruins — if tangible results were re- 
garded, scarcely any other word could be considered ap- 
propriate — and acutely awake to what had happened to 
his fortunes, he was vaguely conscious of what had hap- 
pened to himself. The feeling forbade remorse or de- 
spair; it engendered courage. It enabled him to infuse 
even a dash of humor into his retrospect of the past 
and his survey of the present. If he still called himself 
a fool, he did it more good-naturedly, and perhaps really 
more in deference to the Wisdom of the Wise and the 
Prudence of the Elders than out of any genuine or deep- 
seated conviction. And anyhow, if he had been a fool, 

323 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


he reckoned that he had learned something from it. 
Everybody must be a fool sometimes. In prudent eyes 
he had been a tolerably complete one, and had paid and 
must pay for the indulgence. But it had not been all 
loss — so his spirit insisted, and refused sackcloth and 
ashes for its wear. 

Meanwhile, however, the bill! Not the rather nebu- 
lous balance sheet of his soul’s gains and losses, but the 
debit account in hard cash. A few sovereigns from the 
five hundred still jingled forlornly in his pocket; a few 
might possibly, thanks to the sublet, stray back from the 
Burlington Theater, but not many. In round figures he 
was fifteen hundred pounds out, and was left with an 
income barely exceeding a hundred pounds a year. Now 
that would not support the life and meet the necessary 
expenses of counsel learned in the law. Other prospects 
he had none; what his mother had Anna was to take. 
He did not want to give up the Bar ; he still remembered 
Mr. Tiddes with a thrill; Wills and Mayne were alive — 
at any rate Mayne was ; a third defeat from fortune was 
not to his liking. Moreover, to abandon his chosen ca- 
reer would nearly break his mother’s heart. He came to 
a swift determination to ^'stick it out” until he had only 
a thousand pounds left. If that moment came, a plunge 
into something new I For the present, all useful expen- 
diture, but strict economy! He instructed his broker 
to sell out two hundred pounds’ worth of stock and 
felt that he had achieved a satisfactory solution of his 
financial troubles. 

For a mind bent on industry — and Arthur flattered 
himself that his really was now — his chambers offered 
new opportunities. Norton Ward had got his silk gown. 
His pupils had disappeared; Arthur could have the run 

324 


TEARS AND A SMILE 


of his work, could annotate and summarize briefs, and 
try his hand on draft “opinions.’^ This was much more 
a,lluring work than reading at large. He could sit in 
court too, and watch the progress of the cases with a 
paternal, a keener, and a more instructed interest. This 
was how he planned to spend the winter sittings, re- 
jecting the idea of going circuit — the chances of gain 
were so small, the expenses involved so great. But in 
the immediate future things fell out differently from 
what he had planned. 

The morning after the Courts opened, he received a 
summons to go and see Mr. Justice Lance in his private 
room. The old Judge gave him a very friendly greeting 
and, being due to take his seat in five minutes, opened 
his business promptly. 

^'My old friend Horace Derwent, who generally comes 
with me as Marshal, is down with influenza and won’t 
be available for three or four weeks. Esther Norton 
Ward was at my house yesterday, and, when she heard 
it, she suggested that perhaps you’d like to take his place. 
I shall be very glad to take you, if you care to come. If 
anything crops up for you here, you can run up — ^be- 
cause marshals aren’t absolutely indispensable to the ad- 
ministration of justice. Your function is to add to my 
comfort and dignity — and I shan’t let that stand in your 
way.” 

^Tt’s most awfully kind of you. I shall be delighted,” 
said Arthur. 

'‘Very well. We start on Monday, and open the Com- 
mission at Raylesbury. My clerk will let you know all 
the details. If you sit in court regularly, I don’t think 
your time will be wasted, and a grateful country pays 
you two guineas a day — not unacceptable, possibly, at 

325 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


this moment!” His eyes twinkled. Arthur felt that his 
theatrical speculation had become known. 

‘‘It’s uncommonly acceptable, I assure you, Sir Chris- 
topher,” said he. 

“Then let’s hope poor Horace Derwent will make a 
leisurely convalescence,” smiled the Judge. 

In high spirits at the windfall, Arthur started off in the 
afternoon to thank Esther for her good offices. He had 
not seen her since they parted, with forced cheerfulness, 
at the doors of the Burlington Theater; neither had he 
carried out his idea of going to one of her husband’s 
meetings; the urgency of his private affairs would have 
dwarfed those of the nation in his eyes, even had his 
taste for politics been greater than it was. 

“I thought you’d like it. You’ll find Sir Christopher 
a pleasant chief, and perhaps it’ll keep you out of mis- 
chief for a few weeks — and in pocket money,” said 
Esther, in reply to his thanks. 

“I’ve got no more mischief in view,” Arthur remarked, 
almost wistfully. “My wild course is run.” 

“I hope so! Did you ever believe in that terrible 
farce ?” 

“Oh, yes, rather! That is, I believed in it generally — 
moments of qualm ! That’s what made it so interesting.” 

“That evening, Arthur! I declare I still shudder! 
What did you do after you got rid of us? Knock your 
head against the wall, or go to bed to hide your tears ?” 

Arthur smiled. “Not exactly, Mrs. Norton Ward. 
I took part in a sort of Privy Council, about ways and 
means, though there weren’t any of either, to speak of — 
and Claud Beverley swore eternal friendship to me, 
heaven knows why! And I had a talk with Miss 
Layard.” 


326 


TEARS AND A SMILE 


Esther was looking at his smiling face in some amaze- 
ment ; he seemed to find the memory of the evening pleas- 
ant and amusing. Her own impressions were so different 
that she was stirred to resentment. ‘T believe I wasted 
some good emotion on you/' she observed severely. 

‘‘Oh, I forgot! I had a telegram from Bernadette — 
from Genoa. Good wishes, you know — ^but I never got 
it till it was all over." He was smiling still, in a rumi- 
native way now. 

“Very attentive of her! It seems to amuse you, 
though." 

“Well, it was rather funny. It came when I was in 
Ayesha Layard’s dressing-room, talking to her, and she — 
well, rather made fun of it." 

Esther eyed him with curiosity. “Did you like that?" 
she asked. 

“I didn’t seem to mind it at the time." His tone was 
amused still, but just a little puzzled. “No, I didn’t 
mind it." 

“I believe — yes, I do — I believe you were flirting with 
the impudent little creature! Oh, you men! This is 
what we get ! We cry our eyes out for you, and all the 
time you’re !’’ 

“Men must work and women must weep !" said Ar- 
thur. 

“That’s just what Judith was doing — literally — all the 
way home in the car ; and in bed afterwards, very likely." 
Esther rapped out the disclosure tartly. “And all the 

while you were !’’ Words failed the indignant 

woman. 

“Cried? What, not really? Poor old Judith! What 
a shame! I must write to her and tell her I’m as jolly 
as possible." 


327 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Oh, I dare say she’s got over it by now,” said Esther, 
with a dig at his vanity. But he accepted the suggestion 
with a cheerful alacrity which disappointed her malice. 

“Of course she has! She’s a sensible girl. What’s 
the good of crying?” 

“Would you have liked to be asked that at all moments 
of your life, Arthur?” 

He laughed. “Rather a searching question sometimes, 
isn’t it? But poor Judith! I had no idea ” His re- 

morse, though genuine enough, was still tinged with 
amusement. The smile lurked about his mouth. 

Esther’s resentment, never very serious, melted away. 
In the end there was something attractive in his disposi- 
tion to refuse even a sympathy which was too soft. She 
thought that she saw a change there. Hard knocks had 
been chipping off a youthful veneer of sentimentality. 
But she would not have him impute a silly softness to 
Judith. “And Judith’s not a crying woman. I know 
her,” she said. 

“I know. She’s got no end of courage. That’s why 
it’s so queer.” 

“She thought your heart was broken, you see.” 

“Yes, but — well, I think she ought to know me better 
than that.” 

“Perhaps she doesn’t always keep up with you,” Es- 
ther suggested. 

Rather to her surprise he let the suggestion go by, 
and did not seize the opportunity it offered of consider- 
ing or discussing himself — his character and its devel- 
opment. Instead, he began to talk about the marshal- 
ship once more, full of interest and pleasure in it, look- 
ing forward to the companionship of Sir Christopher, 
to seeing and learning, to the touches of old pomp and 
328 


TEARS AND A SMILE 


ceremony in which he was to assist, unimportantly in- 
deed but as a favorably placed spectator. 

‘T’m more grateful to you than I can say,'’ he de- 
clared. *'And not for the two guineas a day only !” 

His gratitude gave her pleasure, but she could not 
understand his mood fully. Her nature moved steadily 
and equably on its own lines ; so far as she could remem- 
ber, it always had, aided thereto by the favoring cir- 
cumstances of assured position, easy means, and a sat- 
isfactory marriage. She did not appreciate the young 
man’s reaction after a long period of emotion and ex- 
citement, of engrossment in his personal feelings and 
fortunes. With these he was, for the moment, sur- 
feited, and disposed, consequently, to turn on them a 
critical, almost a satiric, eye. The need of his mind now 
was for calmer interests, more impersonal subjects of 
observation and thought. He was looking forward to 
being a spectator, a student of other people’s lives, acts, 
and conditions ; he was welcoming the prospect of a pe- 
riod during which his mind would be turned outward 
towards the world. He had had enough of himself for 
the time being. 

It was not, then, a moment in which he was likely to 
ask himself very curiously the meaning of Judith’s tears, 
or to find in them much stuff to feed either remorse or 
vanity. He was touched, he was a little ashamed, though 
with twitching lips, as he contrasted them with his fare- 
well to Ayesha Layard at approximately the same mo- 
ment. But on the whole he felt relieved of a matter 
with which he had little inclination to occupy himself 
when Esther said, at parting, ‘T think on the whole you’d 
better not say anything to Judith about what I told you; 
she might be angry with me for giving her away.” 

22 329 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Judith might well have thought herself betrayed by 
the disclosure which Esther had made in her irritated 
curiosity, in her resentful desire to confront the smiling 
young man with the pathetic picture of a girl in tears. 
When a woman says to a man, of another woman, “See 
how fond she is of you !” there is generally implied the 
reproach, “And you underrate, you slight, you don’t 
return, her affection.” Such a reproach had certainly 
underlain the contrast Esther drew between Judith’s 
tears and the smiles in which Arthur had presumably 
indulged during his talk with Ayesha Layard. But 
Arthur took the contrast lightly; it did not really come 
home to him; he did not seek to explore its possible 
meaning, the suggestion contained in it. Lightly, too, he 
seemed to have taken Bernadette’s telegram — ^her recol- 
lection of him at a crisis of his fortunes, coming out 
of the silence and darkness in which her flight had 
wrapped her. Here was a thing which might surely 
have moved him to emotion, rousing poignant memo- 
ries! But when Miss Ayesha Layard rather made fun 
of it, he had not minded 1 Even this account of what 
had happened — this faint adumbration of the truth — 
agreed ill with Esther’s previous conception of him. 

But it was of a piece with his new mood, with the 
present turn of his feelings under the stress of fortune. 
To this mood matters appertaining to women — to use 
the old phrase, the female interest — did not belong. He 
was liberated for the time from the attack of that, from 
his obsession with it, and in his freedom was turning a 
detached, a critical, eye on his days of bondage. Rather 
oddly it had been a woman’s work, not indeed to bring 
about his release, but still to mark the moment when 
he began to be conscious of it; for the turn of the tide 

330 


TEARS AND A SMILE 


of his mind was marked by the moment when, in kissing 
Ayesha Layard, he forgot his telegram. That little epi- 
sode satirically mocked the erstwhile devotee and the 
inconsolable lover, and all the more because it hovered 
itself pleasantly near the confines of sentiment. It point- 
edly and recurringly reminded him that there were more 
women than one in the world, that there were, in fact, 
a great many. And when a young man’s heart is open to 
the consideration that there are a great many women in 
the world, it is, for all serious purposes, much the same 
with him as though there were none. 

Esther Norton Ward was not in possession of the full 
facts, or she might better have understood why Arthur’s 
smile had resisted even the appeal of Judith’s tears. 

On the last evening before he left London, he dined 
with Joe Halliday and, with a heart opened by good 
wine, Joe gave his personal view of the Burlington The- 
ater disaster. 

‘T’m sorry I let the Sarradets and Amabel in,” he said, 
''and of course I’m awfully sorry I stuck you for such 
a lot — though that was a good deal your own doing ” 

"It was all my own doing,” Arthur protested. 

"And I’m sorry for everybody involved, but for my- 
self I don’t care much. As long as a fellow’s got a 
dinner inside him and five quid in his pocket, what’s 
there to worry about? I’ve got lots of other jobs ma- 
turing. In fact, as far as I’m personally concerned, per- 
haps it’s rather a good thing we did take such a toss. 
The fact is, old chap, I was getting most infernally gone 
on Ayesha.” 

"I thought you were touched! Well, she’s very at- 
tractive.” 

"You’re right! If we’d run a hundred nights, I should 

331 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


have been a fair goner ! And on the straight too, mind 
you ! Even as it is, I don’t mind telling you — ^as a pal — 
that I’m hardly my usual bright self since she went to 
Yankeeland. Keep thinking what she’s up to — like a 
silly ass ! Beastly ! And what did I get out of it? Noth- 
ing!” His voice grew plaintively indignant. ^‘On my 
word, not so much as that, Arthur I” With the words he 
put two fingers to his lips and flung a kiss to the empty 
air. 

“That was rather hard lines,” Arthur remarked, smil- 
ing, pleased to hear that, so far as Joe was concerned 
at least. Miss Ayesha’s promise about her medicine had 
been handsomely kept. 

“Well, I suppose you wouldn’t notice it much” — (A 
veiled allusion to the Romantic and Forsaken Lover!) — 
“but she’s enough to make any man make a fool of him- 
self over her.” He heaved a ponderous sigh. “I expect 
I’m well out of it! She’d never have given me more 
than a string of beads to play with. And if by a miracle 
she had succumbed to my charms, I should have been 
as jealous as a dog every time she went to the theater! 
No sound way out of it! All just silly!” He looked up 
and caught Arthur smiling at him. He burst into a 
laugh. “Lord, what an ass I am! Come along, old 
chap! If we get moving, we shall be just in time to 
see Trixie Kayper at the Amphitheater. I hear she 
knocks stars out of high heaven with her twinkling 
feet!” 

Arthur agreed that the performance was one not to 
be missed. 


CHAPTER XXX 


A VARIETY SHOW 

The Majesty of the Law — nay, in theory at least, the 
Majesty of England — sat enthroned at Raylesbury. In 
the big chair in the center the Honorable Sir Christopher 
Lance, in his newly powdered wig and his scarlet robes — 
the “Red Judge” whose splendor solaces (so it is said) 
even the prisoners with a sense of their own importance. 
On his right the High Sheriff, splendid also in Deputy 
Lieutenant’s uniform, but bored, sleepy after a good 
lunch, and half stifled by sitting indoors all day in bad air, 
instead of agreeably killing something under the open 
vault of heaven. Beyond him the Chaplain, smooth- 
faced, ruddy, rather severe, in gown and cassock of silk 
so fine and stiff as to seem capable of standing up straight 
on its own account, even if his Reverence chanced not 
to be inside. At the end, the Under Sheriff, unobtrusively 
ready to come to his chief’s assistance. On his Lord- 
ship’s left — a sad falling off in impressiveness — Arthur 
in mufti, and beyond him Mr. Williams, the Judge’s 
clerk, a fat man of constant but noiseless activity, ever 
coming in and going out, fetching nothing from nowhere 
and taking it back again (at any rate so far as the casual 
spectator could perceive). Behind, such county magis- 
trates as were attracted by curiosity or by a laudable de- 
sire to take a lesson in doing justice. In front, to ri^^ht 
and left, and down below, divided from this august com- 
333 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


pany (for even on Marshal and clerk fell rays of re- 
flected dignity), the world of struggle — the Bar, the so- 
licitors, jury, witnesses, prisoners, spectators, with great 
policemen planted at intervals like forest trees among 
the scrub. For mainspring of the whole machine, the 
Clerk of Assize, a charming and courtly old gentleman, 
telling everybody what to do and when to do it; polite, 
though mostly unintelligible, to the prisoners; confiden- 
tial and consolatory to the jury; profoundly anxious that 
nothing should ruffle so much as a hair of his Lordship’s 
wig. 

In the morning they had tried a yokel for stealing a 
pig. The defense — a guinea’s worth — eloquently ad- 
vanced and ardently pressed, was that the prosecutor had 
presented the prisoner with the pig in a moment of con- 
viviality. The prosecutor met the suggestion with amaze- 
ment, the jury with smiles: one might get drunk, but 
no man was ever so drunk as to give his pig away ! Ver- 
dict — guilty. His Lordship passed a light sentence, faint- 
ly smiling over the ways of a world which, after nearly 
fifty years in the law and eighteen on the Bench, still 
remained to him rather remote and incomprehensible. 
This case of the pig was a merry case. It lent itself to 
jokes, and young Bertie Rackstraw’s caricature (he so- 
laced briefless days with art) of counsel for the defense 
arm in arm with a gowned and bewigged pig was cir- 
culated and much admired. Fignus amoris, another wag 
wrote under it. 

Now, in the afternoon, a different atmosphere obtained 
in court. There were no jokes and no caricatures. Peo- 
ple were very quiet. Counsel for the prosecution put 
his searching questions gravely and gently, almost with 
pitifulness ; counsel for the defense was careful, earnest, 
334 


A VARIETY SHOW 


anxious. Progress was slow ; almost every word of the 
evidence had to go down in the Judge’s red book, to be 
written down in Sir Christopher’s neat precise hand- 
writing. A man was on trial for his life and, as after- 
noon darkened into evening, the battle drew near its 
fateful issue. 

He was a big, burly, stolid, honest-looking fellow, in- 
articulate, not able to help himself by his answers or to 
take proper advantage of the dexterous leads given him 
by his counsel, who strained his right to lead, since life 
was at stake. In truth, though he was sorry that he had 
killed her — since his old tenderness for her had revived, 
and moreover he wished he had killed the other man in- 
stead — he could not see that he had done wrong. He 
knew that the law said he had, and drew therefrom a 
most formidable conclusion: but he did not feel con- 
victed in his own heart. She had deceived him and, 
when discovered, had derided him with ugly words. 
Had he slain her then and there in his rage, the plea of 
manslaughter might well have prevailed. But he said 
nothing to her; in grim silence he had taken his way to 
the town and bought the knife, and waited for two days 
his opportunity; then cunningly lain in wait where she 
would come alone, and swiftly, in silence again, killed 
her. But may not rage — ungovernable rage — last two 
days and be cunning? Round this the battle raged. 
He had been cunning, calm, methodical. 

It was seven o’clock when the Judge finished his sum- 
ming up, and the jury retired. His Lordship did not 
leave the court, but listened to an application relating to 
a civil cause which was to be heard at the next town. 
Everybody seemed to turn to this matter with relief ; and 
small noises — coughs and fidgetings — began to be audible 
335 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


again. But Mr. Williams rose and went out noiselessly, 
soon to return. This time he brought something from 
somewhere, and held it hidden beneath the Bench. 

The jury came back, and the little noises were all 
hushed. 

“How say you — guilty or not guilty?” 

“Guilty,” the foreman answered. “But we wish to 
recommend him to mercy, my lord, in view of his great 
provocation.” 

The prisoner’s eyes turned slowly from the foreman 
to the Judge. Mr. Williams slid what he had brought — 
the square of black cloth — into the Marshal’s hand, and, 
under the Bench still, the Marshal gave it to the Judge. 

The prisoner only shook his head in answer to the 
Clerk of Assize’s question whether he had any reason 
why the Court should not pronounce sentence, and in 
due form sentence followed. The Judge delivered it in 
low and very gentle tones, with a high compassion. “The 
jury’s recommendation will receive the fullest considera- 
tion, but I may not bid you hope for mercy, save for that 
Mercy for which every one of us equally must pray.” 

At the end the condemned man made a little bow to 
the Court, awkward but not without a pathetic dignity. 
“Thank you, my lord,” he said, with respectful simplicity. 
Then he was led downstairs, and the black square trav- 
eled back on its hidden way to Mr. Williams’ custody. 
Mr. Williams stowed it in some invisible place, and is- 
sued his summons to all and sundry to attend again at 
half-past ten on the morrow. The Court rose ; the work 
of the day was ended. It remained only for the Marshal 
to write to his Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for 
the Home Department, apprising him that sentence of 
death had been passed and that the Judge’s notes would 

336 


A VARIETY SHOW 


be sent to him without delay. His Lordship, the Sheriff, 
and the Chaplain passed out to the state carriage, 
attended by the javelin men. 

“Do you think he's got any chance, my lord ?” asked the 
High Sheriff, as they drove to the Judge’s lodgings. 

“Yes, Sir Quentin, an off-chance, I should say. In 
fact, I think I shall help him, as far as I can — that’s be- 
tween ourselves, of course. He didn’t seem to me a bad 
sort of man but” — he smiled faintly — “very primitive. 
And the poor wretch of a woman certainly didn’t let him 
down easy.” 

“I should like to have seen the other man in the dock 
beside him, my lord,” said the Chaplain. 

“Oh, well. Chaplain, he wasn’t bound to anticipate mur- 
der, was he ? As it is, he’s thought it prudent to get out 
of the country — at some loss and inconvenience, no 
doubt; this man’s friends were after him. But for that 
we should have had him here to-day.” 

“He wouldn’t have been popular,” the High Sheriff 
opined, with a shake of his glossy head. 

Thus, as the days went by at Raylesbury and the suc- 
ceeding assize towns, drama after drama was unfolded, 
and varieties of character revealed — knaves guileless and 
knaves quick-witted; fools without balance or self-re- 
straint; mere animals — or such they seemed — doing ani- 
mal deeds and confronted with a human standard to 
which they were not equal and which they regarded with 
a dull dismay. Incidentally there came to light ways of 
life and modes of thought astonishing, yet plainly accept- 
ed and related as things normal ; the old hands,on the cir- 
cuit knew all about them and used their knowledge 
deftly in cross-examination. Now and then the dock 
was filled by a figure that seemed strange to it, by a deni- 
337 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


zen of the same world that Bench and Bar, High Sheriff 
and Marshal inhabited ; in one place there was a solicitor 
who had been town clerk and embezzled public moneys; 
in another a local magistrate stood to plead in the dock 
side by side with a laborer whom he himself had com- 
mitted for trial ; the laborer was acquitted, and the mag- 
istrate sent to prison — with naught to seek thenceforward 
but oblivion. Freaks of destiny and whirligigs of for- 
tune! Yet these were the exception. The salient rev- 
elation was of a great world of people to whom there 
was nothing strange in finding themselves, their relatives 
or friends in that dock, to whom it was an accident that 
might well happen to anybody, an incident in many a 
career. But they expected the game to be played ; they 
were keen on that, and bitterly resented any sharp prac- 
tice by the police ; a “fair cop,” on the other hand, begat 
no resentment. Lack of consideration as between man 
and man, however, stirred ire. One fellow’s great griev- 
ance was that a zealous officer had arrested him at seven 
o’clock on a Sunday morning. “Why couldn’t ’e let me 
’ave my Sunday sleep out?” he demanded. “A bloke’s 
not going to do a bunk at seven of a Sunday morning !” 
His Lordship smilingly assured him that he should have 
seven days less in prison, but he was not appeased. 
“Seven of a Sunday, my lordship!” he growled still, in 
disappearing. 

“Well, I shouldn’t like it myself,” said “my Lordship,” 
aside to the Marshal. 

His Lordship’s “asides” added something to the Mar- 
shal’s instruction and more to his amusement. Sir Chris- 
topher was not a reformer or a sociologist, nor even an 
emotionalist either. He took this assize court world as 
he found it, just as he took West End drawing-rooms as 

338 


A VARIETY SHOW 


he found them, at other times of the year. He knew 
the standards. He was never shocked, and nothing made 
him angry, except cruelty or a Jack-in-office. In pres- 
ence of these he was coldly dangerous and deadly. To 
see him take in hand a policeman whose zeal outran the 
truth was a lesson in the art of flaying a man’s skin off 
him strip by strip. The asides came often then; the 
artist would have the pupil note his skill and did not dis- 
dain his applause. Though the Marshal’s share in the 
work of the court was of the smallest, his Lordship liked 
him to be there, hearing the cases and qualifying himself 
for a gossip over them, on an afternoon walk or at 
dinner in the evening. 

As the days went by, a pleasant intimacy between the 
old man and the young established itself, and grew into 
a mutual affection, quasi-paternal on the one side, almost 
filial on the other. A bachelor, without near kindred save 
an elderly maiden sister, the old Judge found in Arthur 
something of what a son gives his father — a vicarious 
and yet personal interest in the years to come — and he 
found amusement in discovering likenesses between him- 
self and his protege, or at least in speculating on their ex- 
istence with a playful humor. 

“Men differ in the way they look at their professions 
or businesses,” he said. “Of course everybody’s got to 
live, but, going deeper into it than that, you find one man 
to whom his profession is, first and foremost, a ladder, 
and another to whom it’s a seat in the theater — if you 
follow what I mean. That fellow Norton Ward’s of 
the first class. He’s never looking about him; his eyes 
are always turned upwards, towards an inspiring vision 
of himself at the top. But you and I like looking about 
us; we’re not in a hurry to be always on the upward 
339 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


move. The scene delights us, even though we’ve no part 
in it or only a small one. That’s been true about me, 
and I think it’s true about you, Arthur.” 

“Oh, I’ve my ambitions, sir,” laughed Arthur. “Fits 
of ambition, anyhow.” 

“Fits and starts ? That’s rather it, I fancy. You prob- 
ably won’t go as far as Norton Ward in a professional 
way, but you may very likely make just as much mark 
on life really, besides enjoying it more ; I mean in a richer, 
broader way. Purely professional success — and I in- 
clude politics as well as the law, because they’re equally 
a profession to men like our friend — is rather a narrow 
thing. The man with more interests — the more human 
man — spreads himself wider and is more felt really; 
he gets remembered more, too.” 

“The Idle Man’s Apologia! Very ingenious!” said 
Arthur, smiling. 

“No, no, you shan’t put that on me. It’s perfectly 
true. The greatest characters — I mean characters, not in- 
tellects — are by no means generally in the highest places ; 
because, as I say, to climb up there you have to specialize 
too much. You have to lop off the branches to make 
the trunk grow. But I don’t see you like that. The 
Burlington Theater was hardly in the direct line of as- 
cent, was it?” 

“I shan’t be quite such a fool as that again, sir.” 

“Not to that extent, and not perhaps in just that way — 
no. I don’t know exactly how you came to go in for it; 
indeed you don’t quite seem to know yourself, as far as 
I can gather from what you’ve said. But I take it that 
it was to see and find out things — to broaden your life 
and your world?” 

Arthur hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so — complicated by 

340 


A VARIETY SHOW 


— well, I was rather excited at the time. I was coming 
new to a good many things.” 

Sir Christopher nodded his head, smiling. “You may 
safely assume that Esther has gossiped to me about you. 
Well, now, take that lady — I don’t mean Esther Norton 
Ward, of course. Men like us appreciate her. Apart 
from personal relations, she’s something in the world 
to us — a notable part of the show. So we what is called 
waste a lot of time over her; she occupies us, and other 
women like her — though there aren’t many.” 

“No, by Jove, there are not !” Arthur assented. 

“It’s a lucky thing, Arthur, that your good cousin isn’t 
built on the lines of our friend at Raylesbury, isn’t it? 
The world would have been the poorer. By the way, 
that fellow’s going to get off ; I had a note from Hurl- 
stone’s private secretary this morning.” Mr. Hurlstone 
was the Home Secretary. “It’s a funny thing, but she 
kept coming into my mind when I was trying the case.” 

Arthur’s nod confessed to a similar experience. 

“We didn’t know each other well enough to talk about 
it then,” Sir Christopher observed, smiling. “Fancy if 
we’d had to try Godfrey Lisle! I hope you’re going to 
stick to the Hilsey folk, Arthur ? It’s good for a man to 
have a family anchorage. I haven’t got one, and I 
miss it.” 

“Yes, rather ! I shall go down there in the Christmas 
vacation. I’m awfully fond of it.” 

The old man leant forward, warming his hands by 
the fire. “You’ll often find funny parallels like that 
coming into your head, if you’re ever a judge. Good 
thing too; it gives you a broad view.” 

“I never shall be a judge,” said Arthur, laughing. 

“Very likely not, if they go on appointing the best 

341 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


lawyers. Under that system, I should never have been 
one either.” 

‘'I think, on the whole, sir, that it’s better fun to be 
a marshal.” 

Certainly it was very good fun — ^an existence full of 
change and movement, richly peopled with various per- 
sonalities. From the Bar thoy lived rather apart, except 
for three or four dinner parties, but they entertained 
and were entertained by local notables. The High Sher- 
iffs themselves afforded piquant contrasts. Bluff and 
glossy Sir Quentin, the country gentleman, was one type. 
Another was the self-made man, newly rich, proud of 
himself, but very nervous of doing something wrong, 
and with stories in his mind of judges savagely tena- 
cious of their dignity and free with heavy fines for any 
breach of etiquette: many an anxious question from him 
about his Lordship’s likes and dislikes Arthur had to an- 
swer. And once the office was ornamented by the son 
and heir of a mighty grandee, who did the thing most 
splendidly in the matter of equipage and escort — even 
though his liveries were only the family’s “semi-state” — 
treated his Lordship with a deference even beyond the 
custom, and dazzled Arthur, as they waited for Mr. Jus- 
tice Lance (who was sometimes late), with easy and 
unaffected anecdotes of the youth of Princes with whom 
he had played in childhood — the perfect man of the 
Great World, with all its graces. Between this High 
Personage and the man who stole the pig there ranged 
surely Entire Humanity! 

But the most gracious impression — one that made its 
abiding mark on memory — was more aloof from their 
work and everyday experience. It was of an old man, 
tall and thin, white-haired, very courtly, yet very simple 

342 


A VARIETY SHOW 


and infinitely gentle in manner. He was an old friend of 
Sir Christopher’s, a famous leader of his school of 
thought in the Church, and now, after long years of labor, 
was passing the evening of his days in the haven of his 
deanery beneath the walls of a stately cathedral. They 
spent Sunday in the city, and, after attending service, 
went to lunch with him. He knew little of their work, 
and had never known much of the world they moved in. 
But he knew the poor by his labors among them, and 
the hearts of men by the strangely keen intuition of holi- 
ness. There was no sanctimoniousness, no pursing up 
of lips, or turning away of eyes ; on the contrary, a very 
straight dealing with facts and reality. But all things 
were seen by him in a light which suffused the universe, 
in the rays of a far-off yet surely dawning splendor; 
Sorrow enduretb for the night, but Joy cometh in the 
morning. 

As they walked back to the lodgings. Sir Christopher 
was silent for a while. Then he said abruptly : “That’s 
a saint ! I don’t know that it’s much use for most of us 
to try to be saints — that’s a matter of vocation, I think — 
but it does us good to meet one sometimes, doesn’t it? 
All that you and I think — or, speaking for myself per- 
haps, used to think — so wonderful, so interesting, has 
for him no importance — hardly any real existence. It’s 
at the most a sort of mist, or mirage, or something of 
that sort — or a disease of mortal eyes — what you like! 
Are you in any way a religious man ?” 

“No, I’m afraid I’m not.” He hesitated a moment and 
went on : “I don’t quite see how one can be, you know, 
sir.” 

“Not as he is, no — I don’t either. And I suppose the 
world couldn’t get on, as a working world, if by a miracle 
343 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


everybody became like him. The world wants its own 
children too — though no doubt it begets some devilishly 
extreme specimens, as you and I have seen in the last 
few weeks. Well, you’ll probably make some sort of 
creed for yourself presently — Oh, a very provisional, 
sketchy sort of affair, I dare say, but still a bit better than 
club codes and that kind of thing. And” — he laid his 
hand on Arthur’s shoulder — "‘the beginning of it may just 
as well be this : Earn your money honestly. Such work 
as you do get or take, put your back into it.” 

“That after all is just what the dean has done with his 
job, isn’t it?” 

“Why, yes, so it is ; though he doesn’t do it for money 
— not even money of his currency. Upon my word, I 
believe he’d sooner be damned than let you or me be, if 
he could help it! So I’ve shown you one more variety 
of human nature, Arthur.” 

“It’s at least as well worth seeing as any of the rest.” 

“Fit it in at leisure with your other specimens,” Sir 
Christopher recommended. 

It did not seem altogether easy to follow this advice — 
even after reflection. 

But there had been other specimens also, not too easy 
to fit in with one another or with any neat and compact 
scheme of society, vindicating to complete satisfaction 
the ways of God to men and of men to one another. No 
symmetrical pattern emerged. Wherever he looked, life 
met his inquiring eyes with a baffling but stimulating 
smile. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


START AND FINISH 

Whenever he was at home at the time of the assizes, 
Lord Swarleigh made a point of inviting the Judge to 
dinner. He was Lord-Lieutenant of the county, and he 
considered the attention due from the military to the 
civil representative of the Crown. The occasion was 
treated as one of ceremony, and though Sir Christopher, 
in mercy to the horses and his own patience, refused to 
drive the six hilly miles which lay between the town and 
Higham Swarleigh Park in the state carriage and hired 
a car, he was in court dress; very refined and aristo- 
cratic he looked. 

'Tt’s an enormous house, but distinctly ugly,’’ he told 
the Marshal as they drove along. “But they’ve got a 
lot of fine things, and they’re nice people. You’ll enjoy 
yourself, I think.” 

Presently the great house came dimly into view, its 
outlines picked out by the lights in the windows. It 
might be ugly ; it was certainly huge ; it seemed to squat 
on the countryside like a mighty toad. It had a tre- 
mendous air of solidity, of permanence, of having been 
there from the beginning of time, and of meaning to 
stay till the end, of being part of the eternal order of 
things — rather like a secular cathedral, with powdered 
footmen for beadles, and a groom of the chambers for 
chief verger. 

23 


345 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


With courtly punctilio the Lord-Lieutenant received 
his guest on the threshold, and himself led him to the 
state drawing-room, where her Ladyship was waiting. 
The Marshal followed behind, rather nervous, not know- 
ing exactly what his part might be in these dignified pro- 
ceedings. The Lord-Lieutenant was in full fig too, and 
several of the men in uniform; the ladies were very 
sumptuous; the bishop of the diocese in his violet coat 
was a good touch in the picture. Behind the hostess, as 
she received them, hung a full-length portrait of his 
Majesty King George the Fourth of happy memory, ar- 
rayed in the robes of the Garter; his Majesty, too, was 
decorative, though in a more florid manner than the 
bishop. 

Lord Swarleigh was not at all like his house, and 
anything military about him was purely ex ofhcio. He 
was a short thin man with a gray beard, an antiquarian 
and something of a historian. When he heard Arthur’s 
name, he asked what family of Lisles he belonged to, 
and when Arthur (with accursed pride in his heart) 
answered “The Lisles of Hilsey,” he nodded his head 
with intelligence and satisfaction. Lady Swarleigh was 
not at all alarming, either. She was a plump middle- 
aged woman who had been pretty, and wore her clothes 
with an air, but her manner had a natural kindness and 
simplicity which reminded Arthur of Esther Norton 
Ward’s. She handed him over to a pretty, gay girl who 
stood beside her. “Fanny, you look after Mr. Lisle,” 
she commanded. “He’s to take you in, I think, but Al- 
f red’ll tell you about that.” Lady Fanny took posses- 
sion of him in such a friendly fashion that Arthur began 
to enjoy himself immediately. 

He saw a tall handsome young fellow moving about 
346 


START AND FINISH 


the room from man to man and briefly whispering to 
each; his manner was calm and indolent, and his de- 
meanor rather haughty; he smiled condescendingly over 
something that the bishop whispered back to him with 
a hearty chuckle. 

“Alfred Daynton’s wonderful!” said Lady Fanny. 
“He’s papa’s secretary, you know, though he really does 
all mamma’s work. He can send twenty couples in with- 
out a list I He never mixes them up, and always knows 
the right order.” 

The great Alfred came up. “You’re all right,” he said 
briefly to Lady Fanny and Arthur, and gave a reassur- 
ing nod to Lady Swarleigh herself. Then he looked at 
his watch, and from it, expectantly, towards the doors. 
On the instant they opened; dinner was ready. Alfred 
again nodded his head just perceptibly and put his watch 
back in his pocket. He turned to Lady Fanny. “You’re 
at the pink table — on the far side.” He smiled dreamily 
as he added, “In the draught, you know.” 

“Bother I You always put me there 1” 

'‘Seniores prior es — and little girls last I Sorry for you, 
Mr. Lisle, but you see you’re on duty — and I’ve got to 
sit there myself, moreover. And you’ll have to talk to 
me, because I haven’t got a woman. I’m taking in the 
Chief Constable — jolly, isn’t it?” 

However, at the pink table — where the host presided, 
flanked by the High Sheriff’s wife and the bishop’s wife 
— the young folks in the draught got on very well, in spite 
of it; and all their wants were most sedulously sup- 
plied. 

“The thing in this house is to sit near Alfred,” Lady 
Fanny observed. “Papa and mamma may get nothing, 
but you’re all right by Alfred !” 

347 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


^^That’s a good un!” chuckled the Chief Constable, a 
stout old bachelor major of ruddy aspect. 

Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the 
corn,’ ” said Alfred, who appeared to be fond of pro- 
verbial expressions. 

‘Tou see, he engages and dismisses all the men,” Lady 
Fanny explained. 

It struck Arthur that Lady Fanny and Alfred were in 
truth remarkably good friends, and he was not wrong. 
In the future among his own best friends he counted Mr. 
Daynton and Lady Fanny, and Mr. Daynton turned his 
remarkable powers of organization to the service of the 
public. But to-night Lady Fanny dutifully devoted her- 
self to the Marshal, and proved an intelligent as well as 
a gay companion. Seeing his interest in his surroundings, 
she told him about the pictures on the walls, the old 
silver ornaments on the table, the armorial devices on 
the silver plates. “You see, papa has drummed all the 
family history into us,” she said, in laughing apology for 
her little display of learning. “He says people don’t de- 
serve to have old things if they don’t take an interest 
in them.” 

“I’m afraid I should take only too much, if they were 
mine. They appeal to me awfully.” He added, smiling, 
in a burst of candor, with a little wave of his hands : 
“So does all this!” 

She considered what he said for a moment with a 
pretty gravity, evidently understanding his words and 
gesture to refer to the surroundings at large, the pomp 
and circumstance in which it was her lot to live, to 
which he came as a stranger and on which he looked with 
unaccustomed eyes; she liked his frank admission that 
it was unfamiliar. 


348 


START AND FINISH 


‘‘I don’t think it hurts,” she said at last, “if you don’t 
take credit to yourself for it. You know what I mean? 
If you don’t think it makes you yourself diiferent from 
other people.” 

“But is that easy?” he asked in curiosity. “Isn’t there 
a subtle influence?” 

“You’re asking rather hard questions, Mr. Lisle !” 

“I suppose I am, but I was thinking mainly of myself. 
I associate other people with their surroundings and pos- 
sessions so much that I believe I should do the same with 
myself. If I had a beautiful house, I should think myself 
beautiful !” 

“If you had this house, then, would you think yourself 
a hideous giant?” she asked, laughing. “But how do 
you mean about other people?” 

“Well, I’ve got cousins who live in a fine old house — 
Oh, not a twentieth the size of this ! — and I’m sure I like 
them better because they’ve got a beautiful house. And 
the first time I saw a very great friend she was in a very 
smart carriage ; and I’m sure she made a greater impres- 
sion on me because of the carriage. And I’m afraid 
that’s being a snob, isn’t it?” 

She laughed again. “Well, don’t think of us in con- 
nection with our house, or you’ll think us as snails with 
shells too large for them on their backs! No, I don’t 
think you’re a snob, but I think you must beware of an 
aesthetic temperament. It makes people rather soft some- 
r times, doesn’t it?” 

Before he had time to answer, Alfred cut in firmly: 
“Now it’s my turn. Lady Fanny!” He pointed with 
his thumb to the Chief Constable’s averted shoulder, and 
dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ve engineered him 
on to the chaplain’s wife !” Arthur could not flatter him- 
349 


A YOUNG IVIAN’S YEAR 


self that Lady Fanny showed any annoyance at the in- 
terruption. 

On his other side sat the under-sheriff — the supply of 
ladies had quite given out — but the good man was not 
conversational, and Arthur was left at leisure to look 
about him. His eye fell on the small, thin, refined little 
host, sitting back in his big armchair with an air of pa- 
tient resignation, while two large women — the bishop’s 
wife and the High Sheriff’s wife — talked to one another 
volubly across him. Perhaps even being the local mag- 
nate was not all beer and skittles ! If one great man had 
admired ^'sustained stateliness of living” another had 
seen in it a compatibility with every misfortune save one 
— poverty. A compatibility obviously with boredom, and 
probably with a great deal of it for a man like Lord 
Swarleigh! A continuous annual round of it, always 
between somebody’s wives, wives of eminent persons and 
not generally in their first youth — nor, on the other hand, 
interested in the family history, nor in armorial bearings. 
Why, even he himself was better off ; if he had the under- 
sheriff on one side, he had youth and beauty on the other. 
Arthur found himself being quite sorry for Lord Swar- 
leigh, in spite of Higham Swarleigh Park, the old silver, 
and George the Fourth in the robes of the Garter. He 
had a vision of Godfrey Lisle at one of Bernadette’s fash- 
ionable parties. Godfrey had got out of it all — at a price. 
Poor Lord Swarleigh would never get out of it — till 
death authoritatively relieved him of his duties. 

After dinner Lady Swarleigh signaled him, and made 
him come and talk to her. 

“We’re always so glad when your Judge comes our 
circuit,” she said. “He’s a friend, you see, and that 
makes our assize dinner pleasanter. Though I always 

350 


START AND FINISH 


like it ; lawyers tell such good stories. Sir Christopher’s 
very fond of you, isn’t he ? Oh, yes, he’s been talking a 
lot about you at dinner ! And he tells me you know Es- 
ther Norton Ward. Her mother was at school with me, 
and I knew her when she was so high ! You must come 
and see us in London in the summer, won’t you ? I wish 
the Judge and you could come out to dinner again — just 
quietly, without all these people — but he tells me you’re 
moving on directly; so we must wait for London. Now 
don’t forget!” 

Here was a woman to like, Arthur made up his mind 
instantly; a regular good sort of woman she seemed to 
him, a woman of the order of Marie Sarradet; ripened 
by life, marriage, and motherhood, and, besides, ampli- 
fied as it were by a situation and surroundings which 
gave greater scope to her powers and broader effect to 
her actions — yet in essence the same kind of woman, 
straightforward, friendly, reliable. 

^‘I’ve only one girl left at home,” she went on, “and I 
dare say I shan’t keep her long, but the married ones are 
always running in and out, and the boys too, and their 
boy and girl friends. So you’ll find lots of young people 
and lots of racketing going on. They often get up pri- 
vate theatricals and inflict them on the patients at our 
hospital — my husband is president of St. Benedict's, you 
know — and you ought to be able to help us — with your 
experience !” 

Arthur smiled and blushed. Sir Christopher had been 
talking, it seemed ; but apparently the talk had not done 
him any harm in Lady Swarleigh’s estimation. 

“We shall be up after Easter. Don’t forget !” she com- 
manded again, rising to meet the Judge as he came to 
take leave of her. 


351 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


With renewed ceremony, escorted by the Lord-Lieu- 
tenant, with the High Sheriff, the chaplain, the under- 
sheriff — last, but certainly not least, Alfred — hovering in 
attendance, his Lordship and his satellite returned to their 
motor car, the satellite at least having thoroughly enjoyed 
his evening. 

‘What awfully jolly people they are!” he exclaimed, 
thinking, plainly, of the ladies of the family; for the 
adjective was not appropriate to Lord Swarleigh himself. 

Sir Christopher nodded, smiling in amusement at Ar- 
thur’s enthusiasm, but very well pleased with it, and 
more pleased with the hostess’s whispered word of praise 
for his young friend as she bade him good night. 

“I got a piece of news to-night which I am ashamed to 
say I find myself considering bad,” he said. “I thought 
I wouldn’t tell you before dinner, for fear that you’d 
think it bad too, and so have your evening spoilt to 
some extent. Horace Derwent writes that he’s quite 
well again and would like to join me for the rest of the 
circuit. And I can’t very well refuse to have him ; he’s 
been with me so often ; and what’s more, this’ll be the last 
time. I’m going to retire at Christmas.” 

“Retire! Why, you’re not feeling out of sorts, are 
you, sir? You seem wonderfully fit.” 

“I am. Wonderfully fit — to retire! I’m turned sev- 
enty and I’m tired. And I’m not as quick as I was. 
When I sit in the divisional court with a quick fellow — 
like Naresby, for instance, a lad of forty-nine or so — I 
find it hard to keep up. He’s got hold of the point while 
I’m still putting on my spectacles ! It isn’t always the 
point really, but that’s neither here nor there. So I’m 
going. They’ll give me my Right Honorable, I suppose, 
and I shall vanish becomingly.” 

352 


START AND FINISH 


awfully sorry. I wanted to have a case before 
you some day! Now I shan’t. But, I say, they ought 
to make you a peer. You’re about the — well, the best- 
known judge on the bench.” 

Sir Christopher shook his head. “That’s my rings, 
not me,” he said, smiling. “No, what’s the use of a peer- 
age to me, even if it was offered ? I’m not fit to sit in the 
Lords — not enough of a lawyer — and I’ve no son. If 
you were my son in the flesh, my dear boy, as I’ve rather 
come to think of you in the spirit these last weeks, I 
might ask for one — for your sake! But I’ve got only 
one thing left to do now — and that’s a thing a peerage 
can’t help about.” 

Arthur was deeply touched, but found nothing to say. 

“It’s a funny thing to come to the end of it all,” the 
old man mused. “And to look back to the time when I 
was where you are, and to remember what I expected — 
though, by the way, that’s hard to remember exactly! 
A lot of work, a lot of nonsense! And to see what’s 
become of the other fellows too — who’s sunk, and who’s 
swum! Some of the favorites have won, but a lot of 
outsiders ! I was an outsider myself ; they used to tell me 
I should marry a rich wife and chuck it. But I’ve never 
married a wife at all, and I stuck to it. And the women, 
too !” 

Arthur knew that gossip, floating down the years, cred- 
ited Sir Christopher with adventures of the heart. But 
the old man now shook his head gently and smiled 
rather ruefully. “Very hard to get that back! It all 
seems somehow faded — the color gone out.” 

He lapsed into silence till they approached the end of 
their drive. Then he roused himself from his reverie 
to say, “So old Horace must come and see the end of 
353 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


me, and you and I must say good-by. Our jaunt’s been 
very pleasant to me. I think it has to you, hasn’t it, 
Arthur ?” 

“It’s been more than pleasant, sir. It’s been somehow 
— I don’t quite know what to call it — ^broadening, perhaps. 
I’ve spread out — didn’t you call it that the other day ?” 

“Yes. Go on doing that. It enriches your life, though 
it mayn’t fill your pocket. Make acquaintances — friends 
in different sets. Know all sorts of people. Go and see 
places. No reason to give up the theater even! Fill 
your storehouse against the time when you have to live 
on memory.” 

They reached the lodgings and went in together. Ar- 
thur saw his Judge comfortably settled by the fire and 
supplied with his tumbler of weak brandy and hot water 
before he noticed a telegram addressed to himself lying 
on the table. He opened and read it, and then came to 
Sir Christopher and put it into his hands. “I think I 
should have had to ask you to let me go anyhow — apart 
from Mr. Derwent.” 

Sir Christopher read: 

Heavy brief come in from Wills and Mayne coming on 
soon please return early as possible — Henry. 

“Hum! That sounds like business. Who are Wills 
and Mayne?” 

“I haven’t an idea. They gave me that county court 
case I told you about. But I don’t in the least know why 
they come to me.” 

“That’s part of the fun of the dear old game. You 
can never tell! I got a big case once by going to the 
races. Found a fellow there who’d backed a winner 
354 


START AND FINISH 


and got very drunk. He’d lost his hat and his scarf pin 
before I arrived on the scene, but I managed to save his 
watch, put him inside my hansom, and brought him home. 
To show his gratitude he made his lawyers put me in a 
case he had. First and last, it was worth four or five 
hundred guineas to me. I believe I’d had a good deal 
of champagne, too, which probably made me very 
valiant ! Well, you must go at once, as early as you can 
to-morrow morning, and send a wire ahead — no, Wil- 
liams can telephone — to say you’re coming. You mustn’t 
take any risks over this. It ought to be a real start for 
you.” He stretched out his hands before the fire. “Your 
start chimes in with my finish !” He looked up at Arthur 
with a sly smile. “How are the nerves going to be, if you 
run up against Brother Pretyman in the course of this 
great case of yours?” 

“I wish he was retiring, instead of you !” laughed Ar- 
thur. 

“If you really know your case, he can’t hurt you. You 
may flounder a bit, but if you really know it you’ll get 
it out at last.” 

“I’m all right when once I get excited,” said Arthur, 
remembering Mr. Tiddes. 

“Oh, you’ll be all right! Now go to bed. It’s late, 
and you must be stirring early to-morrow. I’ll say good- 
by now — I’m not good at early hours.” 

“I’m awfully sorry it’s over, and I don’t know how to 
thank you.” 

“Never mind that. You think of your brief. Be oif 
with you I I’ll stay here a little while and meditate over 
my past sins.” He held out his hand and Arthur took 
it. They exchanged a long clasp. “The road’s before 
you, Arthur. God bless you!” 

355 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


The old man sat on alone by the fire, but he did not 
think of his bygone sins nor even of his bygone triumphs 
and pleasures. He thought of the young man who had 
just left him — his son in the spirit, as he had called him 
in a real affection. He was planning now a great pleas- 
ure for himself. He was not a rich man, for he had both 
spent and given freely, but he would have his pension 
for life, quite enough for his own wants, and after pro- 
viding for the maiden sister, and for all other claims on 
him, he would have a sum of eight or ten thousand 
pounds free to dispose of. At his death, or on Arthur’s 
marriage — whichever first happened — Arthur should 
have it. Meanwhile the intention should be his own 
pleasant secret. He would say nothing about it, and he 
was sure that Arthur had no idea of anything of the 
sort in his head. Let the boy work now — with the spur 
of necessity pricking his flank! “If I gave it him now, 
the rascal would take another theater, confound him!” 
said Sir Christopher to himself, with much amusement — 
and no small insight into his young friend’s character. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


WISDOM CONFOUNDED 

“Mr. Tracy Darton was in it, sir. He advised and 
drew the pleadings. But he got silk the same time as 
we did (Henry meant, as Mr. Norton Ward did), and 
now they’ve taken you in.” Henry’s tone was one of ad- 
miring surprise. “And Sir Humphrey Fynes is to lead 
Mr. Darton — they’re sparing nothing! I gather there’s 
a good deal of feeling in the case. I’ve fixed a confer- 
ence for you, sir, at four-fifteen. There’s one or two 
points of evidence they want to consult you about.” 

Thus Henry to Arthur — with the “heavy brief” be- 
tween them on the table. Perhaps Henry’s surprise and 
enthusiasm had run away with him a little; or perhaps 
he had wanted to make quite sure of lassoing Arthur 
back. At any rate, had the brief been Norton Ward’s, 
he would hardly have called it “heavy” — satisfactory and, 
indeed, imposing as the fee appeared in Arthur’s eyes. 
Nor was the case what would generally be known as a 
“heavy” one; no great commercial transaction was in- 
volved, no half-a-million or so of money depended on it. 
None the less, it already displayed a fair bulk of papers — 
a voluminous correspondence — and possessed, as Arthur 
was soon to discover, great potentialities of further 
growth. A very grain of mustard seed for that I It was 
destined, as luck would have it (the lawyers’ luck, not 
the client’s), to a notable career; it engaged the atten- 
357 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


tion of no less than ten of his Majesty’s judges. It had 
already been before Pretyman, J., in chambers. Nares- 
by, J., was to try it (if a glance into the future be allow- 
able). The Court of Appeal was to send it back for a 
new trial. The Lord Chief Justice was to take it to him- 
self. Again the Court of Appeal was to figure, disagree- 
ing with the judgment pronounced by the Lord Chief 
Justice on the findings of the jury. And, at last, four 
noble and learned lords were to upset the Court of Ap- 
peal, and restore the judgment of the Lord Chief Justice 
— a decision which, at all events, was final, though Ar- 
thur, whose feelings were by that time deeply engaged, 
never pretended to consider it right. And then, when 
the case was disposed of for good and all, no longer 
suh judicihus (the plural is obviously demanded), the 
newspapers took a turn at it with those ironical com- 
ments with which their ignorance is rashly prone to assail 
the mysteries of the law. 

It — that is, the case of Crewdson v. The Great South- 
ern Railway Company — was about a dog, consigned ac- 
cording to the plaintiff’s — which was Arthur’s — conten- 
tion (the real movements of the animal were wrapped in 
doubt from the outset) by a certain Startin — who was 
at that date butler to the plaintiff, but under notice to 
leave, and who did a few days later vanish into space — 
to his mistress. Miss Crewdson, an elderly lady of con- 
siderable means and of indomitable temper — from Ten- 
terden in Sussex to its owner at Harrogate, where she 
was taking the waters. Though a very small dog, it was 
a very precious one, both from a sentimental and from 
a pecuniary point of view. So it ought to have been, 
considering the questions of law and fact which it raised ! 
For in reply to Miss Crewdson’s simple, but determined 

358 


WISDOM CONFOUNDED 


and reiterated, demand for her dog or her damages, the 
company made answer, first, that they had never received 
the dog at Tenterden; secondly, that they had duly deliv- 
ered the dog at Harrogate ; and lastly — but it was a ‘last- 
ly’ pregnant with endless argument — that they had done 
all they were bound to do in regard to the dog, what- 
ever had in truth happened or not happened to the ani- 
mal. What actually had, nobody ever knew for certain. 
A dog — some dog — got to Harrogate in the end. The 
company said this was Miss Crewdson’s dog, if they had 
ever carried a dog of hers at all ; Miss Crewdson indig- 
nantly repudiated it. And there, in the end, the ques- 
tion of fact rested — forever unsolved. The House of 
Lords — though the Lord Chancellor, basing himself on a 
comparison of photographs, did indulge in an obiter dic- 
tum that the Harrogate dog, if it were not the Tenterden 
dog, was as like as two peas to it (“Of course it was — 
both Pekinese ! But it wasn’t our dog,” Arthur muttered 
indignantly) — found it unnecessary to decide this ques- 
tion, in view of the fact that, Startin having disappeared 
into space, there was no sufficient evidence to justify a 
jury in finding that the company had ever received any 
dog of Miss Crewdson’s. It was this little point of the 
eternally doubtful identity of the Harrogate dog which 
proved such a godsend to the wits of the press ; they sug- 
gested that the Highest Tribunal in the Land might have 
taken its courage in both hands and given, at all events 
for what it was worth, its opinion about the Harrogate 
dog. Was he Hsien-Feng, or wasn’t he? But no. The 
House of Lords said it was unnecessary to decide that. 
It was certainly extremely difficult, and had given two 
juries an immensity of trouble. 

All these remarkable developments, all these delightful 

359 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


ramifications, now lay within the ambit of the red tape 
which Arthur, left alone, feverishly untied. He had 
to be at it; he could not wait. Not only was there the 
conference at four-fifteen, but he was all of an itch to 
know what he was in for and what he might hope for, 
divided between a craven fear of difficulty above his 
powers and a soaring hope of opportunity beyond his 
dreams. 

After three hours’ absorbed work he was still on the 
mere fringe of the case, still in the early stages of that 
voluminous correspondence, when Miss Crewdson was 
tolerably, and the company obsequiously, polite — and no 
dog at all was forthcoming, to correspond to the dog al- 
leged to have been consigned from Tenterden. A dog 
was being hunted for all over two railway systems ; likely 
dogs had been sighted at Guildford, at Peterborough, and 
at York. The letters stiffened with the arrival of the 
Harrogate dog — ten days after the proper date for the 
arrival of the dog from Tenterden. ‘^Not my dog,” wrote 
Miss Crewdson positively, and added an intimation that 
future correspondence should be addressed to her solici- 
tors. Messrs. Wills and Mayne took up the pen ; in their 
hands and in those of the company’s solicitors the letters 
assumed a courteous but irrevocably hostile tone. Mean- 
while the unfortunate Harrogate dog was boarded out at 
a veterinary surgeon’s — his charges to abide the result 
of the action ; that doubt as to his identity would survive 
even the result of the action was not then foreseen. 

Arthur broke off for lunch with a tremendous sense of 
interest, of zest, and of luck — above all, of luck. He 
had not been called two years yet ; he had no influential 
backing; such a little while ago work had seemed so 
remote, in hours of depression, indeed, so utterly out of 
360 


WISDOM CONFOUNDED 


the question. Then the tiny glimmer of Mr. Tiddes, now 
the glowing rays of Crewdson v. The Great Southern 
Railway Company! It was not the moment, even if he 
had been the man, for a measured sobriety of anticipa- 
tion; it was one of those rare and rich hours of youth 
when everything seems possible and no man's lot is to 
be envied. 

And he owed it to Wills and Mayne — unaccountably 
and mysteriously still! The picture of old Mr. Mayne, 
with his winking eye, rose before his mind. A strange 
incarnation of Fortune! A very whimsical shape for 
a man's Chance to present itself in ! He gave up the mys- 
tery of how Mr. Mayne had ever heard of him origi- 
nally, but he hugged to his heart the thought that he must 
have conducted the Tiddes case with unexampled bril- 
liancy. Only thus could he account for Mr. Mayne's 
persistent loyalty. 

So, after lunch, back to the dog — the Harrogate dog, 
that Tichborne Claimant of a Pekinese dog! 

Four o'clock struck. With a sudden return of fear, 
with a desperate resolve to seem calm and not over-eager, 
Arthur prepared to face Mr. Mayne. He wished to 
look as if cases like Crewdson v. The Great Southern 
Railway Company were an everyday occurrence. 

Punctually at four-fifteen, a knock at the outer door — 
and footsteps ! Henry threw open the door of his room. 
“Mr. Thomas Mayne to see you, sir." Henry's manner 
was very important. 

“Oh, show him in, please," said Arthur. It struck him, 
with a sudden pang, that the bareness of his table was 
glaringly horrible. Not even, as it chanced, any of Nor- 
ton Ward’s briefs which, turned face downwards, might 
have dressed it to some degree of decency ! 

24 361 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


‘This way, sir, please,” said Henry, with his head 
over his shoulder. 

Timidly, rather apologetically, with a shy yet triumph- 
ant smile on his melancholy face, Mr. Claud Beverley en- 
tered. 

Instantaneously, at the mere sight of him, before Henry 
had finished shutting the door, the truth flashed into Ar- 
thur’s mind, amazing yet supremely obvious; and his 
mind, thus illuminated, perceived the meaning of things 
hitherto strange and unaccountable — of Wills and 
Mayne’s interest and loyalty, of old Mr. Mayne’s pres- 
ence on the first night, of Mr. Claud Beverley’s promise 
to do him a good turn, no less than of that budding au- 
thor’s bitter references to “the office,” which so ham- 
pered and confined the flight of his genius. He had been 
so fierce, too, when Ayesha Layard threatened to betray 
his identity! Arthur fell back into the chair from which 
he had just risen to receive his visitor, and burst into 
a fit of laughter — at Mr. Beverley, at himself, at the way 
of the world and the twists of fortune. “By Jove, it’s 
you!” he spluttered out in mirthful enjoyment of the 
revelation. 

Tom Mayne — such was he henceforth to be to Arthur, 
however the world might best know him — advanced to 
the table and — timidly still — sat down by it. “I swore 
to get it for you— and I have! Tracy Barton’s taking 
silk gave me the chance. I had an awful job, though; 
the governor thought you hadn’t enough experience, and 
he was rather upset about your being away — you remem- 
ber that time? But I stuck to him, and I brought him 
round. I managed it !” 

In mirth and wonder Arthur forgot to pay his thanks. 
“But why the deuce didn’t you tell me, old man? Why 
362 


WISDOM CONFOUNDED 


have you been playing this little game on me all this 
while ?’' 

“Oh, well, I — I didn’t know whether I could bring it 
off.” His timidity was giving way to gratification, as he 
saw what a success his coup had with Arthur. “Besides, 
I thought it was rather — well, rather interesting and dra- 
matic.” 

“Oh, it is — most uncommonly — ^both interesting and 
dramatic,” chuckled Arthur. “If you knew how I’ve 
wondered who in the devil’s name Wills and Mayne 
were !” 

“Yes, that’s just what I thought you’d be doing. That 
was the fun of it !” 

“And it turns out to be you! And I wondered why 
your governor was at the first night 1” 

“I thought you might see him. I was rather afraid that 
his being there might give it away. But he insisted on 
coming.” 

“Give it away! Lord, no! It no more entered my 

head than !” A simile failed him. “Did nobody 

know who you were? Not Joe? Not the Sarradets?” 

“None of them — except Ayesha Layard ; she knew who 
I was, because we once did a case for her.” 

Arthur was gazing at him now in an amusement which 
had grown calmer but was still intense. 

“Well, I was an ass !” he said softly. Then he remem- 
bered what he ought to have done at first. “I say, I’m 
most tremendously obliged to you, old fellow.” 

“Well, you came to the rescue. We were absolutely 
stuck up for the rest of the money— couldn’t go on with- 
out it, and didn’t know where to get it ! Then you 
planked it down— and I tell you I felt it! You gave me 
my chance, and I made up my mind to give you one if I 

363 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


could. It’s only your being at the Bar that made it pos- 
sible — and my being in the office, of course.” 

“But it wasn’t much of a chance I gave you, unfor- 
tunately.” 

“You mean because it was a failure? Oh, that makes 
no difference. I was on the wrong tack. I say, Lisle, 
my new play’s fixed. We’re rehearsing now. The Twen- 
tieth Society’s going to do it on Sunday week, and, if it’s 
a go, they’re going to give me a week at Manchester. 
If that’s all right, I ought to get a London run, oughtn’t 
I?” His voice was very eager and excited. “If I do, 
and if it’s a success” (How the “if’s” accumulated!), “I 
shall chuck the office!” 

It was his old climax, his old hope, aspiration, vision. 
Arthur heard it again, had heard him working up to it 
through that procession of “if’s,” with a mixture of pity 
and amusement. Would the new play do the trick, would 
“real life” serve him better than the humors of farce? 
Would that “success” ever come, or would all Tom 
Mayne’s life be a series of vain efforts to chuck an 
office ultimately unchuckable, a long and futile striv- 
ing to end his double personality and to be nobody 
but Claud Beverley? Full of sympathy, Arthur won- 
dered. 

“It’s bound to be a success, old chap. Here, have a 
cigarette, and tell me something about it.” 

Eagerly responding to the invitation, the author 
plunged into an animated sketch of his plot, a vivid pic- 
ture of the subtleties of his heroine’s character and the 
dour influence of her environment : the drama was realis- 
tic, be it remembered. Arthur listened, nodding here and 
there, now murmuring, “Good!” now “By Jove!” now 
opening his eyes wide, now smiling. “Oh, jolly good!” 

364 


WISDOM CONFOUNDED 


he exclaimed over the situation at the end of the first 
act. 

Meanwhile Crewdson v. The Great Southern Railway 
Company lay on the table between them, unheeded and 
forgotten. It too, had it been animate, might have mused 
on the twists of Fortune. This afternoon at least it 
might have expected to hold the pride of place undis- 
puted in Arthur Lisle’s chambers I 

But not until the scenario of the drama had been 
sketched out to the very end, not until Arthur’s murmurs 
of applause died away, did Claud Beverley turn again 
into Tom Mayne. And the transformation was woefully 
incomplete; for it was with a sad falling off in interest, 
indeed in a tone of deep disgust, that he said, “Well, I 
suppose we must get back to that beastly case !” 

Arthur laughed again. What a way to talk of his 
precious brief, pregnant with all those wonderful pos- 
sibilities! What an epithet for the barque that carried 
Caesar and his fortunes ! But his laugh had sympathy 
and understanding in it. Across the narrow table sat 
another Caesar — and there was a barque that carried his 
fortunes, and was to set sail within a short space on a 
stormy and dangerous voyage, over a sea beset with 
shoals. 

“Well, anyhow, here’s jolly good luck to Jephthah's 
Daughter r he said. Such was the title of Mr. Claud 
Beverley’s play of real life. 

But when they did at last get back to the neglected 
case, and Tom Mayne elbowed out Claud Beverley, a 
very good head Tom showed himself to have, however 
melancholy again its facial aspect. They wrestled with 
their points of evidence for an hour, Arthur sending to 
borrow Norton Ward’s “Taylor,” and at the end Tom 

365 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Mayne remarked grimly, '‘That’s a double conference, 
I think!” 

“Some of it really belongs to Jephthah's Daughter” 
said Arthur, with a laugh. 

“We may as well get something out of her, anyhow I” 
and Tom Mayne absolutely laughed. 

Making an appointment to meet and dine, accepting an 
invitation to come and see Jephthah's Daughter, full of 
thanks, friendliness, and sympathetic hopes for the friend 
who had done him such a good turn, inspired with the 
thought of the work and the fight which lay before him 
— in fact, in a state of gleeful excitement and good-will 
towards the world at large, Arthur accompanied his 
friend to the door and took leave of him — indeed, of both 
of him; for gratitude to Tom Mayne, hopes for Claud 
Beverley, were inextricably blended. 

And it so fell out — what, indeed, was not capable of 
happening to-day? — that as his friend walked down the 
stairs with a last wave of his arm, Mr. Norton Ward, 
K.C., walked up them, on his return from a consultation 
with Sir Robert Sharpe. 

“Who’s that?” he asked carelessly, as he went into 
chambers, followed by Arthur, and they reached the 
place — half room, half hall — which Henry and the boy 
(the junior clerk was his own title for himself) inhab- 
ited. 

“Only one of my clients,” said Arthur, with assumed 
grandeur, but unable to resist grinning broadly. 

“One won’t be able to get up one’s own stairs for the 
crowd, if you go on like this,” observed Norton Ward. 
“Oh, look here, Henry! I met Mr. Worthing — of the 
Great Southern office, you know — over at Sir Robert’s. 
There’s a case coming in from them to-night, and they 
366 


WISDOM CONFOUNDED 


want a consultation at half-past five to-morrow. Just 
book it, will you ?” He turned to go into his own room. 

But Arthur had lingered — and listened. “A case from 
the Great Southern? Do you know what it's about?" 

Norton Ward smiled — rather apologetically. He liked 
it to be considered that he was in only really “heavy" 
cases now. “Well, it’s something about a dog, I believe, 
Arthur." He added, “An uncommonly valuable dog, 
I’m told, though." 

A valuable dog indeed — for one person in that room, 
anyhow ! 

“A dog!" cried Arthur. “Why, that’s my case! Tm 
in it!" 

Norton Ward grinned; Arthur grinned; but most 
broadly of all grinned Henry. Clerk’s fees from both 
sides for Henry, to say nothing of the dramatic interest 
of civil war, of domestic struggle! 

“Do you mean you’re for the plaintiff ? How in thun- 
der did you get hold of it?" 

“That’s my little secret," Arthur retorted triumphantly. 
It was not necessary to tell all the world the train of 
events which led up to his brief in Crewdson v. The Great 
Southern Railway Company. 

“Well, I congratulate you, old chap," said Norton 
Ward heartily. Then he grinned again. “Come and dine 
to-morrow, and we’ll try to settle it." 

“Settle it be ! Not much!" said Arthur. “But 

I’ll dine all right." 

Norton Ward went off into his room, laughing. 

That was an awful idea — settling! Even though ad- 
vanced in jest, it had given him a little shock. But he 
felt pretty safe. He had read Miss Crewdson’s letters; 
she was most emphatically not a settling woman ! Her 

367 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


dog, her whole dog, and nothing but her dog, was what 
Miss Crewdson wanted. 

Arthur sat down before his fire and lit his pipe. He 
abandoned himself to a gratified contemplation of the 
turn in his fortunes. A great moment when a young 
man sees his chosen profession actually opening before 
him, when dreams and hopes crystallize into reality, when 
he plucks the first fruit from branches which a little 
while ago seemed so far out of reach ! This moment it 
was now Arthur’s to enjoy. And there was more. For 
he was not only exulting ; he was smiling in a sly triumph. 
What young man does not smile in his sleeve when the 
Wisdom of the Elders is confounded? And what good- 
natured Elder will not smile with him — and even clap 
his hands? 

“It’s my own fault if that thousand pounds I put in 
the farce doesn’t turn out the best investment of my life !” 
thought Arthur. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


A NEW VISION 

It was not given to Arthur again to hear his mother’s 
voice or to see her alive. A few days after the first round 
of the protracted battle over the great case had ended 
in his favor, just before the close of the legal term, news,^ 
reached him of her death. She had been suffering from 
a chill and had taken to her bed, but no immediate dan- 
ger was anticipated. She had read with keen pleasure 
Arthur’s letters, full now of a new zest for his work and 
a new confidence. She breathed her gentle Nunc Di- 
mittis; her daughter’s future was happily arranged, her 
son’s now opened before him. In simple and ardent 
faith her eyes turned to another world. As though in 
answer to an appeal instinctively issuing from her own 
soul, the end came very quickly. The tired heart could 
bear no added strain. After making her comfortable for 
the night, Anna had gone downstairs to eat her own sup- 
per; when she came up again, all was over. There was 
no sign of movement, no look of shock or pain ; her eyes 
were closed. It seemed that sleeping she had fallen 
asleep, and her peaceful spirit found in an instant the 
eternal peace of its faithful aspiration. 

Here was no place for the bitterness of grief. Death 
brought a quickened sense of unity and love, and the lost 
mother joined her children’s hands in a renewal of child- 
hood’s affection and of sweet old memories. ^‘Peace I 

369 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


leave with you/’ Anna whispered to Arthur, as they 
stood beside the grave, and he felt that she divined truly 
the legacy which their mother would have chosen, before 
all others, to bequeath to them. 

It was arranged that Anna should go and stay with 
Ronald Slingsby’s people until the time came for her 
wedding ; it was to take place in about three months. The 
old familiar home was to be broken up. They spent two 
or three busy days together, sorting out furniture, set- 
tling what was to be sold and what either of them would 
like to keep; regretfully deciding that this or that relic 
of old days was “rubbish” and must be destroyed, redo- 
lent though it was with memories. Many a sigh, many 
a laugh, the old things drew from them; forgotten pass- 
words of childish intimacy came back to mind; ancient 
squabbles were recalled with fond amusement. They 
lived the old days over again together. The conscious- 
ness that the old days were now finally over, that their 
paths in life lay henceforth far apart, gave added ten- 
derness to recollection, making this good-by to the old 
house and the old things a good-by to the old days also — 
even in some sense a good-by to one another. 

So it had to be, and so in truth it was best. They were 
not made to live together. Differences now submerged 
beneath the waves of a common love and a common emo- 
tion would rise to the surface again, a menace to their 
love and peace. Both knew it — was there not the mem- 
ory of Arthur’s former visit to remind them? — and ac- 
quiesced in the separation which their lots in life im- 
posed. Yet with sadness. When the actual moment 
came for leaving the old house and one another, Anna 
threw herself into her brother’s arms, sobbing; “We 
mustn’t quite forget one another, Arthur!” 

370 


A NEW VISION 


^‘Please God, never, my dear,” he answered gravely. 
“We’ve shared too much together for that.” 

“You’ll come to the wedding?” Her voic^ fell to a 
whisper. “You’ll be friends with Ronald?” 

“Yes, yes, indeed I will. Why not?” 

“He’s not narrow or uncharitable really. It’s only that 
his standards are so high,” she pleaded. 

“I know — and I hope mine’ll get a little higher. Any- 
how we shall be jolly good friends, you’ll see. Come, 
this isn’t really good-by, Anna !” 

She kissed him tenderly, whispering, “I shall pray for 
you always, Arthur,” and so turned from him to Ronald, 
who was to escort her on her journey to his mother’s 
house at Worcester. Arthur left Malvern later in the 
same day, to spend his Christmas at Hilsey. 

He went from his old home to a new one ; the manner 
of his welcome assured him of that plainly. They were 
all — even Godfrey — at the station to meet him. Their 
greetings, a little subdued in deference to his sorrow, 
seemed full of gladness, even of pride, that they should 
be there to soothe and soften it, that he should have Hil- 
sey to turn to, now that the links with his old life were 
broken. When they got him to the house, they showed 
him, with exulting satisfaction, a new feature, a surprise 
which Judith had conceived and Godfrey gladly agreed 
in carrying out — a room, next to his old bedroom, fitted 
up as a “den” for his exclusive use, artfully supplied 
with all male appurtenances and comforts, a place 
where he could be his own master, a visible sign that 
he was no more a guest but a member of the house- 
hold. 

“Well, this is something like!” said Arthur, squeezing 
Margaret’s little hand in his and looking at Judith’s eyes, 

371 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


which shone with pleasure over the pretty surprise she 
had contrived for him. 

“You needn’t be bothered with any of us more than 
you want now,” she told him. 

“We’re never to come in unless you invite us,” Mar- 
garet gravely assured him. 

“A man’s lost without his own room,” Godfrey re- 
marked; and without doubt he spoke his true feel- 
ings. 

“I take possession — and I’m not sure I shall let any of 
you in!” Arthur declared gaily. 

“Oh, me, sometimes?” implored Margaret. 

“Well, you, sometimes — and perhaps one guinea-pig 
occasionally!” he promised. 

Only a few days before — while Arthur was still at 
Malvern — Godfrey’s case had been heard and had, of 
course, gone through unopposed. He had performed 
his part in it with that reserve of quiet dignity which 
was his in face of things inevitable. Save for a formal- 
ity — in this instance it was no more — he and Bernadette 
were quit of one another. The new state of things was 
definitely established, the family reconstituted on a fresh 
basis. Little Margaret was now its center, her happiness 
and welfare its first preoccupation, the mainspring of its 
life. No longer harassed by the sense of failure, or afraid 
of a criticism none the less galling for being conveyed in 
merry glances, Godfrey dared to respond openly to his 
little girl’s appeal for love. When the child, tutored by 
Judith’s skilful encouragement, made bold to storm the 
defenses of his study and beg his company, she met with 
a welcome, shy still, but cordial, with a quiet affection 
which suited her own youthful gravity. They would 
wander off together, or busy themselves over Margaret’s 

372 


A NEW VISION 


animals, neither of them saying much — and what little 
they did say impersonal and matter-of-fact — yet obvi- 
ously content in their comradeship, liking to be left to it, 
creating gradually, as the days went by, a little tranquil 
world of their own, free from incursions and alarms, safe 
from unexpected calls on them, from having to follow 
other people’s changing moods and adapt themselves to 
other people’s fitful emotions. The little maid grave be- 
yond her years — the timid man shrinking back from the 
exactions of life — they seemed curiously near of an age 
together, strangely alike in mind. Day by day they grew 
more sufficient for one another — not less fond of Judith 
and of Arthur, but more independent even of their help 
and company. 

“Does she often ask about her mother — about whether 
she’s coming back, and so on?” Arthur inquired of Ju- 
dith. 

“Very seldom, and she’s quite content if you say ‘Not 
yet’ But I think it’ll be best to tell her the truth soon ; 
then she’ll settle down to it — to tell her that her mother 
isn’t coming back, and isn’t married to her father any 
more. You know how easily children accept what they’re 
told; they don’t know what’s really involved, you see. 
By the time she’s old enough to understand, she’ll quite 
have accepted the position.” 

“But Bernadette will want to see her, won’t she?” 

“I don’t know. I really hope not — at present at all 
events. You see what’s happening now — Bernadette’s 
just going out of her life. Seeing her might stop that. 
And yet, if we look at it honestly, isn’t it the best thing 
that can happen?” 

“In fact you want Bernadette completely — obliter- 
ated?” He frowned a little. To make that their object 
373 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


seemed rather ruthless. “A bit strong, isn’t it ?” he 
asked. 

“Can she complain? Isn’t it really the logic of the 
situation? With Bernadette what she is too — and the 
child what she is!’’ 

“You’re always terribly good at facing facts, Judith.” 
He smiled. “A little weak in the idealizing faculty I” 

“In this family you’ve supplied that deficiency — am- 
ply.” 

“You mustn’t sneer at generous emotions. It’s a bad 
habit you’ve got.” 

She smiled, yet seemed to consider what he said. “I 
believe it is a bad habit that I used to have. The old 
state of affairs here rather encouraged it. So many emo- 
tions all at cross purposes! Rather a ridiculous waste 
of them ! It made them seem ridiculous themselves. But 
I think I’ve got out of the habit.” 

“You’ve still a strong bias toward the mere matter-of- 
fact. You like humdrum states of mind — I believe you 
positively prefer them.” 

“And you like to pass from thrill to thrill !” She 
laughed. “Is that very unfair? Because I don’t mean 
it to be. And I am changed a little, I think. What has 
happened here has made a difference. Say you think 
me a little — just a little — softer?” 

“Say you think me a little — just a little — harder?” he 
retorted, mocking her. 

“No, but seriously?” she persisted, fixing her eyes on 
him almost anxiously. 

“Well, then, yes. I think you’re perceptibly more hu- 
man,” he acknowledged, laughing still. 

A more serious description of the change that Ar- 
thur found in Judith might not have gone so near the 
374 


A NEW VISION 


mark. Though her judgment preserved the sanity which 
he admired — without emulating — and her manner the cool 
satiric touch which he generally relished and sometimes 
resented, stress of circumstances had broken down her 
detachment and forced her out of her pose of critical 
but scarcely concerned spectator. She had become, willy- 
nilly, involved in the family fortunes; she could no 
longer merely look on, and smile, or deride ; she had been 
forced to think, to act, and to feel — to take a part, to 
shoulder her share of the load. The latent faculties of 
her nature, ripe to spring into full womanhood, had an- 
swered to the call with instinctive readiness. So soon 
as there was work for her courage, her love and sympa- 
thy, she had them to give, and the more she gave the 
greater grew her store. Sustaining Godfrey, mothering 
Margaret, she had experienced something of the stirring 
and development of feeling which comes with marriage 
and motherhood. Through disaster and consolation, in 
ruin and the need to rebuild, she had been forced to seek 
the rich things of her heart and had found abundance. 

Thus she seemed ^‘perceptibly more human,” the 
change of heart revealing itself not only in her dealings 
with others but as surely, though more subtly, in her- 
self. She opened out in a new spontaneity of feeling; 
she was easier to approach in confidence, more ready to 
appreciate and to share the joys of the spirit. Even in 
her bearing and looks there might be discerned a new 
alacrity, a new brightness of the eyes. Her mirth was 
heartier and more kindly; her mockery had lost its bit- 
terness without losing its flavor. 

Some such new, or revised, impression of her had 
formed itself in Arthur’s mind and found voice now in his 
bantering speech. His gaze rested on her in pleasure 
375 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


as he added, “But you needn't carry it too far. Nobody 
wants you to become a gusher." 

“Heaven forbid!" she murmured. “I really think I’m 
safe from that. I’ve too much native malice about me — 
and it will out !" 

“Perpetual founts of warm emotion — geysers! Ter- 
rible people!" 

“Oh, even you’re hardly as bad as that !" 

“They debase the emotional currency," said Arthur, 
with a sudden and violent change of metaphor. 

On Christmas Day hard weather set in, with a keen 
frost. A few days of it promised skating on the low- 
lying meadows, now under flood. Full of hope and joy- 
ful anticipation, Arthur telegraphed for his skates. 

“Can you skate? Have you got any skates? If you 
can’t. I’ll teach you," he said excitedly to Judith. 

“I have skates, and I can skate — thank you all the 
same," she replied, smiling demurely. “But you and I 
can teach Margaret between us. I don’t suppose God- 
frey will care about doing it." 

The frost held, their hopes were realized. Godfrey’s 
attitude was what had been expected ; with pathetic ob- 
jurgations on the weather he shut himself up in his 
study. The other three sallied forth, though Margaret 
seemed alarmed and reluctant. 

“I haven’t skated for years," said Arthur, “but I used 
rather to fancy myself." 

“Well, you start, while I give Margaret a lesson." 

Arthur was an average skater — perhaps a little above 
the average of those who have been content to depend 
on the scanty natural opportunities offered by the Eng- 
lish climate. He was master of the outside edge, and 
could manage a “three," an “eight," and, in a rather wob- 

376 


A NEW VISION 


bly fashion, a few other simple figures. These he pro- 
ceeded to execute, rather “fancying himself,'’ as he had 
confessed, while Judith held Margaret in a firm grip and 
tried to direct her helplessly slithering feet. 

“I don’t think I like skating,” said Margaret, with her 
usual mild firmness. “I can’t stand up, and it makes my 
ankles ache.” 

“Oh, but you’re only just beginning, dear.” 

“I don’t think I like it. Cousin Judith.” 

Judith’s brows went up in humorous despair. “Just 
like Godfrey!” she reflected helplessly. “Oh, well, have 
a rest now, while I put my skates on and show you how 
nice it will be when you’ve learned how to do it.” 

“I don’t think I shall ever like it, Cousin Judith. I 
think I shall go back and see what papa’s doing.” 

Judith yielded. “Do you as you like, Margaret,” she 
said. “Perhaps you’ll try again to-morrow?” 

“Well, perhaps!” Margaret conceded very doubtfully. 

“The ice is splendid. Hurry up !” Arthur called. 

But Judith did not hurry. After putting on her 
skates, she sat on a hurdle for some minutes, watching 
Arthur’s evolutions with a thoughtful smile. He came 
to a stand opposite to her, after performing the most 
difficult figure in his repertory, his eyes and cheeks glow- 
ing and his breath coming fast. “How’s that for high?” 
he asked proudly. 

“Not bad for a beginner,” she replied composedly. 
“Would you like really to learn to skate? Because, if 
you would. I’ll give you a lesson.” 

“Well, I’m hanged ! Come on, and let’s see what you 
can do yourself !” 

She got up and peeled off her jacket; before she put 
it down on the hurdle, she produced an orange from the 
25 377 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


pocket of it. Motioning Arthur to follow her, she glided 
gently to the middle of the ice and dropped the orange 
onto it. Having done this and given him a grave glance, 
she proceeded to execute what was to him at least an 
inconceivably and dazzlingly complicated figure. When 
it was at last achieved, it landed her by his side, and 
she asked, “How’s that for high?” 

“You humbug! How dare you say nothing about it? 
Letting me make a fool of myself like that! How did 
you learn?” 

“Oh, in Switzerland. I often went there in the win- 
ter — before Hilsey claimed me. Come and try.” 

Arthur tried, but felt intolerably clumsy. His little 
skill was vanity, his craft mere fumbling! Yet gradu- 
ally something seemed to impart itself from her to him 
— a dim inkling of the real art of it, not the power to do 
as she did, but some idea of why she had the power and 
of what he must do to gain it. She herself seemed to 
be far beyond skill or art. She seemed part of the ice — 
an emanation from it, a spirit-form it gave out. 

“Why, you must be a champion, Judith !” 

“I just missed it, last year I was out,” she answered. 
“I think you show quite a knack.” 

“I’ve had enough. Give me an exhibition!” 

“Really?” He nodded, and she smiled in pleasure. 
“I love it better than anything in the world,” she said, 
as she turned and darted away across the ice. 

He sat down on the hurdle, and smoked his pipe while 
he watched her. He could see her glowing cheeks, her 
eyes gleaming with pleasure, her confident enraptured 
smile — above all, the graceful daring turns and twists of 
her slim figure, so full of life, of suppleness, of the beauty 
of perfect balance and of motion faultlessly controlled — 

378 





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A NEW VISION 


all sign of effort hidden by consummate mastery. She 
was grace triumphant, and the triumph irradiated her 
whole being — her whole self — with a rare fine exhilara- 
tion; it infected the onlooker and set his blood tingling 
through his veins in sympathetic exultation. 

At last she came to a stop opposite him — cheeks red, 
eyes shining, chest heaving, still full of tkat wonder- 
ful motion waiting tp be loosed again at the bidding of 
her will. 

never saw anything like it V* he cried. “You’re beau- 
tiful, beautiful, Judith!” 

“You mean — it’s beautifuf,” she laughed, her cheeks 
flushing to a more vivid red. 

“I meant what I said,” he persisted, almost indig- 
nantly. “Beautiful 1” 

She did not try to conceal her pleasure and pride. “I’m 
glad, Arthur.” 

“Look here, you’ve got to teach me kow to do it — 
some of it, anyhow.” 

“I will, if the frost will only last. Let’s pray to 
heaven 1” 

“And you’ve got to come to Switzerland with me next 
winter.” 

“I’ll think about that!” 

“In fact, every winter — if you’ll kindly think about 
that too !” He got up with a merry ringing laugh. “God 
bless the frost! Let’s have another shot at waltzing? 
You’ve inspired me— I believe I shall do it better !” 

He did it— a little better — and she ardently encour- 
aged him; the slender supple strength of her figure rest- 
ing against his arm seemed a help more than physical, 
almost, as he said, an inspiration. Yet presently he 
stopped, and would have her skate by herself again. 

379 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“No, that’s enough for this morning,” she protested. 
Yet, when he begged, she could not but do as he asked 
once more; his praises fell so sweet on her ears. At 
the end she glided to him and held out her hands, put- 
ting them in his. “No more, no more! I — I feel too 
excited.” 

“So do I, somehow,” he said, laughing, as he clasped 
her hands, and their eyes met in exultant joyfulness. 
“You’ve given me a new vision of you, Judith I” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


THE LINES OF LIFE 

The glorious frost lasted a glorious week, generous 
measure for an English frost, and long enough for Ar- 
thur to make considerable improvement in the art of 
skating; since Margaret maintained her attitude of not 
caring about it, he had the benefit of the professor’s un- 
divided attention. Long enough, too, it lasted, for the 
new vision to stamp itself deep on his mind. For com- 
panion picture he recalled from memory another which 
at the outset had made no such vivid impression — Judith 
crying over the failure of the farce. His mind had passed 
it by lightly when it was first presented to him ; it had not 
availed to turn his amused thoughts from Miss Ayesha 
Layard and her medicine. It came back now, at first 
by what seemed only a chance or freak of memory, but 
presently establishing for itself a relation with its sister 
vision of triumphant grace. Between them they gave to 
Judith in his eyes something that he had not discerned 
before — something which had always been there, though 
not in such full measure in the earlier days of their ac- 
quaintance, before disaster and grief, and love and sym- 
pathy, had wrought upon her spirit. He saw her now — 
he was idealizing again, no doubt, to some degree, after 
that generous fashion of his which no cold steel of ex- 
perience could quite eradicate — as capable of the depths 
and heights of emotion ; no longer as tethered too tight 

381 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


by reason and good sense, somewhat too critical, a trifle 
too humdrum in her notions — that was the conception of 
her which he had in the days of Bernadette’s reign. The 
solid merits of that type he left to her still; and in 
this he was indeed on the firm ground of experience ; he 
had tried and tested them. But now he decked them 
with bright ornaments and blended their sober useful 
tints with richer coloring — with tenderness of heart, a 
high brave joy in life, the grace of form and charm of 
face in which the eye delights. 

Subtly and delightfully sure of his changed vision of 
her, she dared now to be wholly herself with him, to 
maintain no shy reserves where prudence held pleasure 
in bondage, and affection took refuge from the fear of 
indifference. She borrowed of him, too, though this un- 
consciously, in an instinct to adapt herself to him. As 
she had lent to him from her store of fortitude and clear- 
sightedness, she levied toll for herself on his wealth of 
persistent and elastic cheerfulness, his gust for life and all 
that life brings with it. 

Yet her old self was not eclipsed nor wholly trans- 
formed. Her caution remained, and her healthy distrust 
of sudden impulses. The satiric smile was still on her 
lips, to check transports and cool the glow of fascination. 
She had been so wont to think him Bernadette’s man — 
whether in joy or in delusion, or in the cruel shock of 
sudden enlightenment — so wont to think Bernadette in- 
vincible, that even Bernadette’s memory seemed a thing 
that could hardly be displaced. She craved a probation, 
a searching test both of her own feelings and of Arthur’s. 
She feared while she enjoyed, and of set purpose nursed 
her doubts. There was not always skating — not always 
bright sun, keen air, and the rapture of motion, incen- 
382 


THE LINES OF LIFE 


tives to hot blood. If he deluded himself, she would have 
compassion ready and friendship for him imimpaired; 
but if she, with open eyes, walked into a trap, her judg- 
ment of herself would be bitter, and friendship would 
scarcely stand against the shame. 

Arthur went back to town ten days before the Christ- 
mas vacation ended, to look after his work and, inci- 
dentally, to attend Marie Sarradet’s wedding. He left 
Hilsey cheerfully, with no real sense of a parting or of 
separation. He was still keen and excited about his 
work, about the life that seemed now to lie before him 
in the law ; and Hilsey — with all it meant to him — figured 
no longer as a distraction from that life, or even an 
enemy to it, but rather as its background and com- 
plement, so much a part of it as to seem with him 
while he worked. And so it was with Judith her- 
self — the new Judith of the new vision. She was 
no enemy to work, either. However bedecked and 
glorified, she was still Judith of the cool head and 
humorous eyes, the foe of extravagance and vain con- 
ceits. 

'‘Back to my dog !” he said gaily. “Holding on to his 
tail. I’ll climb the heights of fortune! And I hope one 
or two more will find their way to chambers — some lit- 
tle puppies, at all events. 

“Ambition is awake I I seem to see a dawning likeness 
to Mr. Norton Ward! 

“I seem to see, as in a golden dream, enough to pay 
his rent, confound him! 

“I discern, as it were from afar off, a silk gown grace- 
fully hanging about your person ! 

“I discern money in my pocket to pay a railway fare 
to Switzerland ! 


383 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


^‘There rises before my eyes a portly man in a high 
seat 1 He administers Justice ! 

“Before mine, a lady, gracious and ample, who 

But that final vision was promptly dispelled by a cushion 
which Judith hurled at him with unerring aim. 

Marie Sarradet and Sidney Barslow were married at 
Marylebone Church, and after the ceremony there was 
a gathering of old friends at the house in Regent’s Park 
— the family (including Mrs. Veltheim), Amabel Osling, 
Mildred Quain, Joe Halliday, and Mr. Claud Beverley, 
the last-named (and so named still in the Sarradet cir- 
cle) blushing under congratulations; for the drama of 
real life had met with a critical success, though the Lon- 
don run had not as yet followed. Indeed, as befitted the 
occasion, a sense of congratulation pervaded the air. It 
seemed as though more than a wedding were celebrated. 
They toasted in their champagne the restored stability of 
the family and the business also. The bridegroom. 
Managing Director of Sarradet’s Limited, showed signs 
of growing stout; there was a very solid settled look 
about him; order, respectability, and a comfortable bal- 
ance at the bank were the suggestions his appearance car- 
ried. Far, far in the past the rowdy gaieties of Oxford 
Street! Old Sarradet basked in the sun of recovered 
safety and tranquillity. Even Raymond, still nominally 
“on appro,” used, all unrebuked, such airs of possession 
towards Amabel that none could doubt his speedy accept- 
ance. Marie herself was in a serene content which not 
even the presence of her aunt could cloud. She greeted 
Arthur with affectionate friendship. 

“It is good of you to come. It wouldn’t have seemed 
right without you,” she told him, when they got a few 
words apart. 


384 


THE LINES OF LIFE 


had to come. You don’t know how glad I am of 
your happiness, Marie.” 

She looked at him frankly, smiling in a confidential 
meaning. “Yes, I think I do. We’ve been very great 
friends, haven’t we? And we will be. Yes, I am happy. 
It’s all worked in so well, and Sidney is so good to me.” 
She blushed a little as she added, with frank simplicity, 
“I love him, Arthur.” 

He knew why she told him ; it was that no shadow of 
self-reproach should remain with him. He pressed her 
hand gently. “God bless you, and send you every happi- 
ness !” 

She lowered her voice. “And you? Because I’ve a 
right to wish you happiness, too.” 

“Fretting about me! And on your wedding day!” he 
rebuked her gaily, 

“Yes, just a little,” she acknowledged, laughing. 

“Well, you needn’t. No, honestly, you needn’t.” He 
laughed too. “I’m shamefully jolly!” 

“Then it’s all perfect,” she said, with a sigh of con- 
tentment. 

Arthur had missed seeing JephthaWs Daughter owing 
to his mother’s death, but since not having seen or read 
the work is not always a disadvantage when congratu- 
lations have to be offered to the author, he expressed 
his heartily to Mr. Beverley. “Next time it’s put up, I 
shall be there,” he added. 

“I don’t know that it ever will be — and I don’t much 
care if it isn’t. It’s not bad in its way — you’ve seen some 
of the notices, I dare say ? — but I’m not sure that it’s my 
real line. I’m having a shot at something rather differ- 
ent. If it succeeds ” 

Arthur knew what was coming. “You shan’t chuck the 

385 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


office before we’ve found the dog, anyhow !” he inter- 
rupted, laughing. But none the less he admired the san- 
guine genius. “Only there won’t be enough dines’ to last 
him out at this rate,” he reflected. 

At the end — when the bride and bridegroom had driven 
off — Arthur suddenly found his hand seized and violently 
shaken by old Mr. Sarradet, who was in a state of ex- 
cited rapture. “The happiest day of my life!” he was 
saying. “What I’ve always hoped for! Always, Mr. 
Lisle, from the beginning!” 

He seemed to have no recollection of a certain inter- 
view in Bloomsbury Street — an interview abruptly cut 
short by the arrival of a lady in a barouche. He was 
growing old; his memory played him tricks. He had 
found a strong arm to lean on and, rejoicing in it, forgot 
that it had not always been the thing which he desired. 

“Yes, you know a good thing when you see it, Mr. Sar- 
radet,” Arthur smilingly told the proud old man. But 
he did it with an amused consciousness that Mrs. Velt- 
heim, who stood by, eyeing him rather sourly, had a very 
clear remembrance of past events. 

“We’ll give ’em a dinner when they come back. You 
must come, Mr. Lisle. Everybody here must come,” old 
Sarradet went on, and shuffled round the room, asking 
everyone to come to the dinner. “And now, one more 
glass of champagne ! Oh, yes, you must ! Yes, you too, 
Amabel — and you, Mildred! Come, girls, a little drop! 
Here’s a health to the happy pair and to Sarradet’s Lim- 
ited !” 

“The happy pair and Sarradet’s Limited!” repeated 
everybody before they drank. 

''And Sarradet’s Limited !” reiterated the old man, tak- 
ing a second gulp. 


386 


THE LINES OF LIFE 


“I don’t know when he’ll stop,” whispered Joe Halli- 
day. ‘‘If we don’t want to get screwed, we’d better make 
a bolt of it, Arthur.” 

So they did, and went for a stroll in the park to cool 
their heads. 

“Well, that’s good-by to them !” said Joe, when he had 
lit his cigar. “And it’s good-by to me for a bit, too. I’m 
sailing the day after to-morrow. Going to Canada.” 

“Are you ? Rather sudden, isn’t it ? Going to be gone 
long ?” 

“I don’t know. Just as things turn out. I may be 
back in a couple of months ; I may not turn up again 
till I’m a Colonial Premier or something of that sort. 
The fact is. I’ve got into no end of a good thing out 
there. A cert — well, practically a cert. I wish I’d been 
able to put you in for a thou or two, old fellow.” 

“No, thanks! No, thanks!” exclaimed Arthur, laugh- 
ing. 

“But it wasn’t to be done. All I could do to get in 
myself ! Especially as I’m pretty rocky. However, they 
wanted my experience ” 

“Of Canada ? Have you ever been there ?” 

“I suppose Canada’s much like other places,” said Joe, 
evading the direct question. “It’s my experience of busi- 
ness they wanted, of course, you old fool. I’m in for a 
good thing this time, and no mistake! If I hadn’t had 
too much fizz already. I’d ask you to come and drink my 
health.” 

“Gbod luck, anyhow, old fellow! I’m sorry you’re 
going away, though. I shan’t enjoy seeing Trixie Kay- 
per half as much without you.” 

He suddenly put his arm in Arthur’s. “You’re a bit 
of a fool in some ways, in my humble judgment,” he 

387 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


said. “But you’re a good chap, Arthur. You stick to 
your pals, you don’t squeal when you drop your money, 
and you don’t put on side. As this rotten old world 
goes, you’re not a bad chap.” 

“This sounds like a parting testimonial, Joe !” 

“Well, what if it does ? God knows when we shall cat 
a steak and drink a pot of beer together again ! A good 
loser makes a good winner, and you’ll be a winner yet. 
And damned glad I shall be to see it! Now I must 
toddle — get in the tube and go to the City. Good-by, 
Arthur.” 

“Good-by, Joe. I say. I’m glad we did Did You Say 
Mrs.? Perhaps you’ll run up against Ayesha Layard 
over there. Give her my love.” 

“Oh, hang the girl ! I don’t want to see he'' I So long, 
then, old chap 1” With a final grip he turned and walked 
away quickly. 

Arthur saw him go with a keen pang of regret. They 
had tempted fortune together, and each had liked what 
he found in the other. Joe’s equal mind — which smiled 
back when the world smiled, and when it frowned thought 
a cheerful word of abuse notice enough to take of its 
tantrums — made him a good comrade, a good standby; 
his humor, crude though it was and preeminently of the 
market-place, put an easier face on trying situations. He 
had a faithful, if critical, affection for his friends, and 
Arthur was not so rich in friends as to lose the society of 
one like this without sorrow. As it chanced, his inti- 
mates of school and university days had drifted into 
other places and other occupations which prevented them 
from being frequent companions, and he had as yet not 
replaced them from the ranks of his profession, from 
among the men he met in the courts and in the Temple ; 
388 


THE LINES OF LIFE 


up to now courts and Temple had been too much places to 
get away from, too little the scene of his spare hours and 
his real interests, to breed intimacies, though, of course, 
they had produced acquaintances. As he walked down 
to the Temple now, after parting from Joe Halliday — 
and for how long heaven alone could tell! — he felt 
lonely and told himself that he must get to know better 
the men among whom his life was cast. He found him- 
self thinking of his life in the Temple as something defi- 
nitely settled at last, not as a provisional sort of ar- 
rangement which might go on or, on the other hand, 
might be ended any day and on any impulse. The coils 
of his destiny had begun to wind about him. 

It Was vacation still, and chambers were deserted; 
Henry and the boy departed at four o’clock in vacation. 
He let himself in with his key, lit his fire, induced a 
blaze in it, and sat down for a smoke before it. Marie 
Sarradet came back into his mind now — Marie Barslow ; 
the new name set him smiling, recalling, wondering. 
How if the new name had not been Barslow but another ? 
Would that have meant being the prop of the family and 
the business, being engulfed in Sarradet’s Limited ? That 
was what it meant for Sidney Barslow — among other 
things, of course. But who could tell what things might 
mean ? Suppose the great farce had succeeded, had really 
been a gold mine — of the sort with gold in it — really a 
second Help Me Out Quickly! Where would he be now 
— he and his thousands of pounds — if that had happened ? 
Would he have been producing more farces, and giving 
more engagements to infectious Ayesha Layard and in- 
defatigable Willie Spring? 

Dis aliter visum — Fate decreed otherwise. Detached 
from the fortunes of Sarradet’s Limited, rudely— indeed 

389 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


very rudely — repulsed from the threshold of theatrical 
venture, he had come back to his Legitimate Mistress. He 
knew her ways — her rebuffs, her neglect, her intolerable 
procrastination ; but he had enjoyed just a taste of her 
favor and attractions too — of the interest and excitement, 
of the many-sided view of life, that she could give. Be- 
cause of these, and also because of her high dignity and 
great traditions — things in which Sarradet’s Limited and 
theatrical ventures seemed to him not so rich — he made 
up his mind to follow the beckoning of fate’s finger and 
to stick to her, even though she half starved him, and 
tried him to the extreme limit of his patience — after her 
ancient wont. 

But his renewed allegiance was to be on terms; so at 
least he tried to pledge the future. He did not want his 
whole life and thought swallowed up. Here his own tem- 
perament had much to say, but his talks with Sir Chris- 
topher a good deal also. He would not be a sleuth-hound 
on the track of success (a Norton Ward, as he defined it 
to himself privily), nose to the ground, awake to that 
scent only, with no eyes for the world about him — or 
again, as it might be put, he would not have his life just 
a ladder, a climb up the steep side of a cliff, in hope 
of an eminence dizzy and uncertain enough even if he got 
there, and with a handsome probability of tumbling into 
the tomb halfway up. Could terms be made with the 
Exacting Mistress about this? Really he did not know. 
So often she either refused all favors or stifled a man 
under the sheer weight of them. That was her way. 
Still — Sir Christopher had dodged it! 

Suddenly he fell to laughing over the ridiculousness 
of these meditations. Afraid of too much work, when 
but for that dog he was briefless still! Could there be 

390 


THE LINES OF LIFE 


greater absurdity or grosser vanity? Yet the idea stuck 
— thanks, perhaps, to Sir Christopher — and under its ap- 
parent inanity possessed a solid basis. There was not 
only a career which he wished to run ; there was a sort of 
man that he wanted to be, a man with broad interests 
and far-reaching sympathies, in full touch with the 
varieties of life and not starved of its pleasures. Thus 
hazily, with smiles to mock his dreams, in that quiet hour 
he outlined the future of his choice, the manner of man 
that he would be. 

The ringing of the telephone bell recalled him sharply 
to the present. With a last smiling “Rot!’' mutteiied 
under his breath at himself, with a quick flash of hope 
that it was Wills and Mayne again, he went to answer 
the call. A strange voice with a foreign accent inquired 
his number, then asked if Mr. Arthur Lisle were in, 
and, on being told that it was that gentleman who was 
speaking, begged him to hold the line. The next moment 
another voice, not strange at all, though it seemed long 
since he had heard it, asked, “Is that you. Cousin Ar- 
thur?” 

“Yes, it’s me,” he answered, with a sudden twinge of 
excitement. 

“I’m at the Lancaster — over here on business with the 
lawyers, just for a day or two. Oliver’s in Paris. I 
want to see you about something, but I hardly hoped to 
find you in town. I thought you’d be at Hilsey. How 
lucky! Can you come and see me some time?” 

“Yes, any time. I can come now, if you like. I’m do- 
ing nothing here.” 

A slight pause — then: “Are you alone there, or is 
Frank Norton Ward there too?” 

“There’s absolutely nobody here but me.” 

391 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


*‘Then I think I’ll come and see you. It’s only a step. 
Will you look out for me?” 

“Yes, I’ll be looking out for you.” 

“In about a quarter of an hour, then. Good-by.” 

Arthur hung up the receiver and returned to his room 
— the telephone was in Henry’s nondescript apartment. 
A smile quivered about his lips; he did not sit down 
again, but paced to and fro in a reckless way. Strange 
to hear her voice, strange that she should turn up to-day ! 
Of all the things he had been thinking about, he had not 
been thinking of her. She recalled herself now with 
all the effectiveness of the unexpected. She came sud- 
denly out of the past and plunged him back into it with 
her “Cousin Arthur.” He felt bewildered, yet definitely 
glad of one thing — a small one to all seeming, but to 
him comforting. He was relieved that she was coming 
to chambers, that he would not have to go to the Lan- 
caster, and ask for her with proper indifference ; ask for 
her by an unfamiliar name — at least he supposed she 
used that name. He felt certain that he would have 
blushed ridiculously if he had had to ask for her by 
that name. He nodded his head in relief ; he was well 
out of that, anyhow ! And — she would be here directly ! 


CHAPTER XXXV 


HILSEY AND ITS FUGITIVE 

She met him just as of old; she gave him the same 
gay, gracious, almost caressing welcome when she found 
him at the foot of the stairs, awaiting her arrival and 
ready to escort her to his room. She put her arm 
through his and let him lead her there ; then seated her- 
self by the fire and, peeling off her gloves, looked up 
at him as he stood leaning his arm on the mantelpiece. 
She smiled as she used; she was the same Bernadette 
in her simple cordiality, the same, too, in her quiet sump- 
tuousness. Only in her eyes, as they rested on his face, 
he thought he saw a new expression, a look of question, 
a half-humorous apprehension, which seemed to say, 
'‘How are you going to treat me. Cousin Arthur?’^ Not 
penitence, nor apology, but just an admission that he 
might have his own views about her and might treat 
her accordingly. “Tell me your views, then — let’s know 
how we stand towards one another!” 

Perhaps it was because some such doubt found a place 
in her mind that she turned promptly and in a rather 
businesslike way to the practical object of her visit. 

“I came over to see my lawyers about the money ques- 
tion. They wanted to see me, and convince me I ought 
to take something from Godfrey. I don’t know that I 
should refuse if I needed it, but I don’t. You know 
what lawyers are! They told me Oliver would desert 
26 3 93 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


me, or practically said he would! Well, I said I was 
going to chance that — as a fact he’s settling quite a lot 
on me — and at last they gave in, though they were really 
sulky about it. Then they told me that I ought to settle 
something about Margaret. Godfrey’s been very kind 
there too ; he’s offered to let me see her practically when- 
ever I like — with just one condition, a natural one, I 
suppose.” She paused for a moment and now leant 
forward, looking into the fire. “I shouldn’t have quar- 
reled with that condition. I couldn’t. Of course he 
wouldn’t want her to see Oliver.” She frowned a little. 
^T told the lawyers that the matter wasn’t pressing, as I 
was going abroad, for a year probably, perhaps longer; 
it could wait till I got back.” 

‘Wou’re going away?” asked Arthur, without much 
seeming interest. 

‘‘Yes — to Brazil. Oliver’s got some interests there 
to look after.” She smiled. “I dare say you think it 
happens rather conveniently? So it does, perhaps — ^but 
I think he’d have had to go anyhow ; and of course I mean 
to go with him. But about Margaret. The real truth 
is, I didn’t want to talk about her to the lawyers; I 
couldn’t tell them what I really felt. I want to tell you, 
Arthur, if I can, and I want you somehow to let God- 
frey know about it — and Judith too. That’s what I want 
you to do for me. Will you?” 

“I’ll do my best. He won’t like talking about it. He 
may be very unapproachable.” 

“I know he may I” She smiled again. “But you’ll try, 
won’t you?” She looked up at him gravely now, and 
rather as though she were asking his judgment. “I’m not 
going to see her, Arthur.” 

“You mean — not at all? Never?” he asked slowly. 

394 


HILSEY AND ITS FUGITIVE 


“It was always rather difficult for Margaret and me 
to get on together, even before all that’s happened. We 
didn’t make real friends. How could we now — with sort 
of official visits like those? Under conditions! Still, 
that’s not the main thing; that’s not what I want you to 
say to Godfrey. I don’t mean to see her till she’s old 
enough — fully old enough — to understand what it all 
means. Then when she’s heard about it — not from me, 
I don’t want to make a case with her or to try to justify 
myself — when Godfrey, or Judith, or even you, have told 
her, I want it to be left to her what to do. If she likes 
to leave it alone, very good. If she likes to see me, and 
see if we can make friends, I shall be ready. There’ll 
be no concealment then, no false pretenses, nothing to 
puzzle her. Only just what sort of a view she takes 
of me herself, when she’s old enough.” She paused and 
then asked, “Have they told her anything yet ?” 

“Only that you can’t come back yet. But I think they 
mean to tell her presently that you won’t, that — well, 
that it’s all over, you know. Judith thinks she’ll ac- 
cept that as quite — well, that she won’t see anything very 
extraordinary about it — won’t know what it means, you 
see.” 

“Do you think she misses me much ?” 

“No, I don’t think so. She and her father are becom- 
ing very great friends. I think she’s happy.” 

“You’ve been there a lot?” 

“Yes, a good deal.” 

“I saw your mother’s death in the paper. I’m sorry, 
Arthur.” 

“They make me quite at home at Hilsey. They’ve 
given me a den of my own.” 

“And Godfrey?” 


395 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


*‘He’s very cheerful, with his walks and his books — 
and, as I say, with Margaret.” 

^‘You’re looking very thoughtful, Arthur. What are 
you thinking of? Do you think me wrong about Mar- 
garet? I shall hear of her, you know. I shall know 
how she’s getting on; Judith will tell me — and Esther. 
You can, too.” 

“It’s all so strange!” he broke out. “The way you’ve 
just — vanished I And yet the house goes on I” 

She nodded. “And goes on pretty well?” she haz- 
arded, with raised brows and a little smile. He made 
a restless impatient gesture, but did not refuse assent. 
“Well, if there’s anything to be said for me, there it is ! 
Because it means that I was a failure.” 

“You weren’t the only failure, Bernadette.” 

“No, I wasn’t. It was all a failure — all round — except 
you; you got on with all of us. Well, when things are 
like that, and then somebody comes and — and shows you 
something quite different and makes — yes, makes — you 
look at it — well, when once you do, you can’t look at 
anything else. It swallows up everything.” 

She fell into silence. Arthur moved from the mantel- 
piece, and sat down in a chair by her side, whence he 
watched her delicate profile as she gazed into the fire 
thoughtfully. He waited for her to go on — to take up 
the story from the day when the long failure came to its 
violent end, from the morning of her flight. 

“I don’t see how I could have done anything different ; 
I don’t see it now any more than I saw it then. You 
won’t forgive Oliver, I suppose — my old Sir Oliver! In 
fact, if I know you. Cousin Arthur, you’ve been trying 
to paint him blacker in the hope of making me whiter! 
But he gives me a wonderful life. I never really knew 

396 


HILSEY AND ITS FUGITIVE 


what a man could do for a woman’s life before. Well, 
I’d had no chance of understanding that, had I ? It’s not 
being in love that I mean, so much. After all. I’ve been 
in love before — yes, and with Godfrey, as I told you 
once. And Oliver’s not an angel, of course — about as 
far from it as a man could be ” 

‘T should think so,” Arthur remarked dryly. 

She smiled at him. “But there’s a sort of largeness 
about him, about the way he feels as well as the things he 
goes in for. And then his courage ! Oh, but I dare say 
you don’t want to hear me talk about him. I really came 
only to talk about Margaret.” 

“You must know I’m glad to hear you’re happy.” 

She caught a tone of constraint in his voice ; the words 
sounded almost formal. “Yes, I suppose you are — and 
ready to let it go at that?” she asked quickly, with a 
little resentment. 

“What else can I do — or say?” he answered, slowly 
and with a puzzled frown. “I’ve got nothing more to 
do with it. I really belong to — to what you’ve left behind 
you. I made a queer mess of my part of it, but still I 
did belong there. I don’t belong to this new life of 
yours, do I ?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “No, I suppose you don’t. 
You belong to Hilsey? Is that it? And I’m trying to 
get you on my side — unfairly ?” She challenged him now 
with something like anger. 

“Oh, it’s not a question of sides ! I tried not to take 
sides. The thing went too deep for that. And why 
must I, why should I? But there’s what’s happened — 
the state of things, you see.” 

“And the state of things makes you belong to Hilsey, 
and prevents your having anything to do with me ?” 

397 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


'‘That’s putting it too strongly ” he began. 

“Oh, but you mean it comes to that ?” she insisted. 

“I don’t see how, in practice, it can work out very 
differently from that.” 

His voice was low and gentle; he avoided her eyes as 
he spoke, though he knew they were upon him, watching 
him closely. He had come to this curious searching talk 
— or rather it had come upon him — totally unprepared. 
She had not been much in his thoughts lately; when he 
had thought of her, it had been in relation to the past, 
or to the household at Hilsey. Her present and future 
life had been remote, out of his ken, perhaps relegated 
to neglect by an instinctive repugnance, by a latent but 
surviving jealousy. Now he was faced with it, without 
time to consider, to get a clear view — much less to find 
diplomatic or dexterous phrases. If he were to say any- 
thing in reply to the questions with which Bernadette 
pressed him — and he could hardly be dumb — there was 
nothing for it but to give her bluntly what he thought, 
his raw reading of the position as it stood, the best he 
could make of it on the spur of the moment, without 
looking far forward, or anticipating future modifications 
and weighing the possible effect of them, and without 
going into any of the ethics of the case, without moral 
judgments or a casuistry nicely balancing the rights and 
wrongs of it; all that seemed futile, arrogant, not for 
him anyhow. The real present question was how the 
state of affairs which had come into being affected him in 
regard to Bernadette, what it left open to them. It was 
on that point that her questions pressed him so closely 
and sharply. 

What did she expect? A resumption of her empire 
over him? That the idol should be reerected in the 

398 


HILSEY AND ITS FUGITIVE 


shrine, pieced together again and put in place to receive 
its worship? Then she could not understand all that 
had gone to the making and the adoration of it. The 
flight had brought mighty changes in and for her — had 
she not herself said so ? In and for him was it to make 
none? She could hardly expect or claim that. Yet her 
questions, her resentment, a forlorn pettishness which had 
crept into her voice and manner, suggested that she was 
feeling hardly used, that she was disappointed and in 
some measure aifronted by his attitude. She seemed to 
pit herself against Hilsey — against the household and the 
home she had elected to leave, for reasons good or bad, 
under impulses whether irresistible or merely wayward 
— to pit herself against it with something like scorn, even 
with jealousy. Had she not herself been all in all to him 
at Hilsey? Had it not been to him a setting for her 
charm and fascination, dear to him for her sake? The 
others there — what had they been to him? Oh, friends, 
yes, friends, and kinsfolk, of course ! But essentially, in 
his real thoughts, her attendants, her satellites — and large- 
ly the grievances against which his adoration had pro- 
tested. 

She remembered their last interview, the night before 
she went away — Arthur’s despair, his sudden flare of 
hot passion, even the words in which he told her that she 
had been everything, nearly everything, in his life. Dis- 
count them as she might, calling them a boy’s madness 
and self-delusion, how they had moved her even at that 
crisis of her life! They had smitten her with tender 
grief, and remained her last impression of her generous 
young devotee. She did not want to hear them again 
nor to find that folly still in his heart. But they had been 
a witness to her power over him. Was it lost? What 
399 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


had destroyed it? Her flight with Oliver? That would 
be natural and intelligible, and was true in part, no doubt ; 
nor did she complain of it. But it did not seem to be 
what was deepest in his mind, not the real stumbling- 
block. If it were a question of personal jealousy and a 
lover’s disenchantment only, how came Hilsey into the 
matter ? And it seemed that it was over Hilsey that they 
had come to an issue. 

She sat a long while, brooding over his last answer, 
with her eyes still set on his averted face. 

“You mean it’ll work out that you’re part of the fam- 
ily, and I’m not ? Are you going to cut me, Arthur ?” 

“Oh, no, no !” he cried, turning to her now. “It’s mon- 
strous of you to say that! God knows I’ve no grudge 
against you! I’ve owed you too much happiness and — 
and felt too much for you. And, if we must talk of sides, 
wasn’t I always on your side?” 

“Yes, but now you’re not.” 

“I’m not against you — indeed I’m not! But if you’re 
away somewhere with — well, I mean, away from us, and 
we’re all together at home ” 

“Us! We! Home!” she repeated after him with a 
smile of rather sad mockery. “Yes, I suppose I begin to 
see, Arthur.” 

“They’ve made it home to me — especially since my 
mother’s death.” 

Her resentment passed away. She seemed tranquil 
now, but sad and regretful. “Yes, I suppose that’s the 
way it’ll work,” she said. “I shall get farther and farther 
off, and they’ll get nearer and nearer!” She laid her 
hand on his for a moment, with one of her old light af- 
fectionate caresses. “I was silly enough to think that 
I could keep you, Arthur, somehow, in spite of all that’s 
400 


HILSEY AND ITS FUGITIVE 


happened. And I wanted to. Because I’m very fond of 
you. But I suppose I can’t. I’m a spoiled child — to 
think I could have you as well as all the rest I’ve got!” 
She smiled. “Awfully thorough life is, isn’t it? Always 
making you go the whole hog when you think you can 
go halfway, just comfortably halfway! I don’t like it. 
Cousin Arthur.” 

“I don’t like it either, altogether; but that is the kind 
of way it gets you,” he agreed thoughtfully. 

“Still we can be good friends,” she said — and then 
broke away from the conventional words with a quick 
impatience. “Oh, being good friends is such a different 
thing from being really friends, though !” She took up 
her gloves and began to put them on slowly. “I had a 
letter from Judith just before I came over,” she remarked. 
“She writes every three or four weeks, you know. She 
said you were down there, and that she and you were 
having a good time skating.” 

“Yes, awfully jolly. She’s a champion, you know !” 

Bernadette was busy with her gloves. She did not see 
the sudden lighting up of his eyes, as her words recalled 
to him the vision of Judith skating, the vivid grace of 
motion and the triumph of activity, there on the ice 
down at Hilsey. 

“Oh, well, she’s been to Switzerland in the winter a 
lot,” said Bernadette carelessly. “I suppose she’d have 

gone this year, if it hadn’t been for ” She raised her 

eyes again to his, and stopped with a glove halfway on. 
“Well, if it hadn’t been for me, really !” She smiled, and 
jerked her head impatiently. “How I seem to come in 
everywhere, don’t I? Well, I can’t help it! She’s got 
no one else belonging to her, and she used to be a lot 
with us, anyhow.” 


401 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


‘‘Oh, you needn’t worry about her ; she’s quite happy,” 
said Arthur confidently. 

“I don’t know that I was worrying, though I dare say 
I ought to have been. But she likes being there. I ex- 
pect she’ll settle down there for good and all.” As she 
went back to her glove-buttoning she added, by way of 
an afterthought, “Unless she marries.” 

Knowing the thing that was taking shape in his own 
heart, and reading his own thoughts into the mind of 
another, as people are prone to do, Arthur expected here 
a certain suggestion, was wondering how to meet it, and 
was in a way afraid of it. He felt a sense of surprise 
when Bernadette passed directly away from the subject, 
leaving her afterthought to assume the form of a merely 
perfunctory recognition of the fact that Judith was a girl 
of marriageable age and therefore might marry — per- 
haps with the implication that she was not particularly 
likely to, however. He was relieved, but somehow a 
little indignant. 

“You’ve told me hardly anything about yourself,” said 
Bernadette. But here again the tone sounded perfunc- 
tory, as though the topic she suggested were rather one 
about which she ought to inquire than one in which she 
felt a genuine interest. 

“Oh, there’s not much to tell. I’ve sown my wild oats, 
and now I’ve settled down to work.” 

She seemed content with the answer, its meagerness 
responding sensitively to her own want of a true 
concern. She was not really interested, he felt, in any 
life that he might be living apart from her. She was 
very fond of him, as she said and he believed ; but it was 
fondness, a liking for his company, an enjoyment of him, 
a desire to have him about her, had such a thing been 
402 


HILSEY AND ITS FUGITIVE 


still possible ; it was not such a love or deep affection as 
would make his doings or his fortunes in themselves of 
great importance to her. Where his life was not in actual 
contact with her own, it did not touch her feelings deeply. 
Well, she had always been rather like that, taking what 
she wanted of his life and time, leaving the rest, and 
paying with her smiles. Well paid, too, he had thought 
himself, and had made no complaint. 

He did not complain now, either. He had never ad- 
vanced any claim to more than her free grace bestowed ; 
and what she gave had been to him great. But he felt 
a contrast. At home — his thoughts readily used that 
word now — his fortunes were matter for eager inquiry — 
excited canvass and speculation. His meager answer 
would not have sufficed there. Judith and little Margaret 
had to hear about everything; even old Godfrey fussed 
about in easy earshot and listened furtively. It was not 
that Bernadette had changed; there was no reason to 
blame her or call her selfish or self-centered. It was the 
others who had changed towards him, and he towards 
them, and he in himself. For Bernadette he was still 
what he had been before the flight — what Judith had 
once called a toy, though a very cherished one. To him- 
self he seemed to have found, sincS then, not only a home 
but a life. 

She did not know that ; she had not seen it happening. 
Nobody had told her: probably she would not under- 
stand if anyone did — not even if he himself tried to, 
and the task would be difficult and ungracious. And of 
what use ? It would seem like blame, though he intended 
none, and against blame she was very sensitive. It might 
make her unhappy — for she was very fond of him — and 
what purpose was served by marring ever so little a 

403 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


happiness which, whatever else it might or might not 
be, was at least hard- won? 

She rose. “It must be getting late,” she said, “and Tm 
going to the theater. And back to Paris to-morrow ! I 
shan’t be in London again for a long, long while. Well, 
you’ll remember what to tell Godfrey — how I feel about 
Margaret? And — and anything kind about himself — if 
you think he’d like it.” 

“I don’t really think I’d better risk that.” 

She smiled. “No, I suppose not. I’m never men- 
tioned — is that it?” 

“Oh, Judith and I talk about you.” 

“I dare say Judith is very — caustic?” 

“Not particularly. Not nearly so caustic as when you 
were with us!” 

“Us I Us I I begin to feel as if I’d run away from you 
too, Arthur ! Though I wasn’t your wife, or your mother, 
or even your chaperon, was I? Well, at the end I did 
run away a little sooner because of you — you’d found 
me out ! — but I don’t think I meant to run away from you 
forever. But you belong to Hilsey now — so it seems as 
if it was forever. I ran away forever from Hilsey, all 
Hilsey — and now you’re part of it I” 

She was standing opposite to him, with a smile that 
seemed half to tease him, half to deride herself. She 
did not seek to hide her sorrow and vexation at losing 
him; she hardly pretended not to be jealous — he could 
think her jealous if he liked! Her old sincerity abode 
with her ; she had no tricks. 

She looked very charming in his eyes; her sorrow at 
losing her — ^he did not know what to call it, but what- 
ever it was that she used to get from his society and his 
adoration — touched him profoundly. He took one of her 
404 


HILSEY AND ITS FUGITIVE 


gloved hands and raised it to his lips. She looked up at 
him; her eyes were dim. 

'‘It's turned out rather harder in some ways than I 
thought it would — making quite a fresh start, I mean. I 
do miss the old things and the old friends dreadfully. 
But it's worth it. It was the only thing for me. There 
was nothing else left to do. I had to do it." 

“You're the only judge," he said gently. “Thank God 
it's turned out right for you!" 

She smiled under her dim eyes. “Did you think I 
should repent? Like those frogs — you remember? — in 
the fable. King Stork instead of King Log?" She 
laughed. “It's not like that." She paused a moment. 
“And Oliver and I aren't to be alone together, I think. 
Cousin Arthur." 

He sought for words, but she put her slim fingers light- 
ly on his lips. “Hush I I don’t want to cry. Take me to 
a taxi — quickly!" 

She spoke no more to him — nor he to her, save to whis- 
per, with a last clasp of her hand before she drove 
away, “God bless you !" 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


IN THE SPRING 

Yes, it was all true ! The events of that red-letter day 
had really happened. When Arthur awoke the next 
morning he had a queer feeling of its all being a dream, 
a mirage born of ambition. No. The morning paper 
proved it; a glance at his own table added confirmation. 

Revolving Time had brought round the Easter va- 
cation again. The last case heard in the Court of Ap- 
peal that sittings was Crewdson v. The Great Southern 
Railway Company, on appeal from Naresby, J.’s, judg- 
ment on the findings of the jury. (The subsequent his- 
tory of the great Dog Case lay still in the future.) It 
was a time of political excitement ; Sir Humphrey Fynes, 
K.C., M.P., had chanced the case being reached and gone 
off to rouse the country to a proper sense of its imminent 
peril if the Government continued so much as a day 
longer in office. Consequently he was not there to argue 
Miss Crewdson^s case. Mr. Tracy Darton, K.C., was 
there, but he was also in the fashionable divorce case of 
the moment, and had to address the jury on the respond- 
ent’s behalf. He cut his argument before the Court of 
Appeal suspiciously short, and left to his learned friend 
Mr. Lisle the task of citing authorities bearing on tricky 
points relating to the subject of common carriers. Ar- 
thur was in a tremor when he rose — nearly as much 
frightened as he had been before Lance and Pretyman, 
406 


IN THE SPRING 


JJ., a year ago — ^but his whole heart was with his dog; 
he grew excited, he stuck to his guns; they should have 
those authorities if he died for it! He was very tena- 
cious — and in the end rather long perhaps. But the 
Court listened attentively, smiling now and then at his 
youthful ardor, but letting him make his points. When 
they came to give judgment against his contention they 
went out of their way to compliment him. The Master of 
the Rolls said the Court was indebted to Mr. Lisle for his 
able argument. Leonard, L.J., confessed that he had 
been for a moment shaken by Mr. Lisle’s ingenious ar- 
gument. Pratt, L.J., quite agreed with what had fallen 
from my lord and his learned brother concerning Mr. 
Lisle’s conduct of his case. Even Miss Crewdson her- 
self, whose face had been black as thunder at Sir Hum- 
phrey’s desertion and Mr. Barton’s unseemly brevity, and 
whose shoulders had shrugged scornfully when Arthur 
rose, found a smile for him in the hour of temporary de- 
feat; that she would lose in the end never entered the 
indomitable woman’s head. Then — out in the corridor 
when all was over — Tom Mayne patted him on the back, 
and almost danced round him for joy and pride — it was 
impossible to recognize in him the melancholy Mr. Bev- 
erley — Norton Ward, hurrying off to another case, called 
out, ‘'Confound your cheek!” and, to crown all, the au- 
gust solicitor of the Great Southern Railway Company, 
his redoubtable opponents, gave him a friendly nod, say- 
ing, ‘T was afraid you were going to turn ’em at the last 
moment, Mr. Lisle!” That his appreciation was genu- 
ine Arthur’s table proved. There, newly deposited by 
triumphant Henry, lay a case to advise the Great South- 
ern Railway Company itself. 

“Once you get in with them, sir !” Henry had said, 

407 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


rubbing his hands together and leaving the rest to the 
imagination. 

Such things come seldom to any man, but once or twice 
in their careers to many. They came to Arthur as the 
crown of a term’s hard work, mostly over Norton Ward’s 
briefs — for Norton Ward had come to rely on him now 
and kept him busy “deviling” — but with some little 
things of his own too; for Wills and Mayne were faith- 
ful, and another firm had sent a case also. His neck 
was well in the collar; his fee book had become more 
than a merely ornamental appurtenance. Long and hard, 
dry and dusty, was the road ahead. Never mind! His 
feet were on it, and if he walked warily he need fear no 
fatal slip. Letting the case to advise wait — his opinion 
would not be needed before the latter part of the vaca- 
tion, Henry said — he sat in his chair, smokipg and in- 
dulging in pardonably rosy reflections. 

“Rather different from what it was this time last year I” 
said Honest Pride with a chuckle. 

A good many things had been rather different with 
him a year ago, he might have been cynically reminded ; 
for instance the last Easter vacation he had dedicated to 
Miss Marie Sarradet, and he was not dedicating this 
coming one to Mrs. Sidney Barslow; and other things, 
unknown a year ago, had figured on the moving picture 
of his life, and said their say to him, and gone their 
way. But to-day he was looking forward and not back, 
seeing beginnings, not endings, not burying the past with 
tears or smiles, but hailing the future with a cheery cry 
of welcome for its hazards and its joys. 

Henry put his head in at the door. “Sir Christopher 
Lance has rung up, sir, and wants to know if you’ll lunch 
with him to-day at one-thirty — at his house.” 

408 


IN THE SPRING 


“Yes, certainly. Say, with pleasure.” Left alone again, 
Arthur ejaculated “Splendid !” Sir Christopher had seen 
the report in the paper! He read the law reports, of 
course. A thought crossed Arthur’s mind — would they 
read the law reports at Hilsey? They might not have 
kept their eye on his case. He folded up the paper and 
put it carefully in the little bag which he was now in 
the habit of carrying to and fro between his lodgings and 
his chambers. 

Sir Christopher was jubilant over the report. “A 
feather in your cap to get that out of Leonard — a crusty 
old dog, but a deuced fine lawyer !” he said. But the news 
of the case from the Great Southern Railway Company 
meant yet more to him. “If they take you up, they can 
see you through, Arthur.” 

“Yes, if I don’t make a fool of myself,” Arthur put 
in. 

“Oh, they’ll expect you to do that once or twice. Don’t 
be frightened. That dog of yours is a lucky dog, eh ? All 
you’ve got to do now is to take things quietly, and not 
fret. Remember that only one side can win, and it’s not 
to be expected that you’ll be on the right side always. 
I think you’ll be done over the dog even, in the end, 
you know.” 

“Not I !” cried Arthur indignantly. “That Harrogate 
cur’s not our dog, sir.” 

“Human justice is fallible,” laughed the old man. 
“Anyhow it’s a good sporting case. And what are you 
going to do with yourself now ?” 

“I’m oif to Hilsey for a fortnight’s holiday. Going 
at four o’clock.” 

“Losing no time,” Sir Christopher remarked, with a 
smile. 


27 


409 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


“Well, it’s jolly in the country in the spring, isn’t it?” 
Arthur asked, rather defensively. 

“Yes, it’s jolly in the spring — jolly anywhere in the 
spring, Arthur.” 

Arthur caught the kindly banter in his tone ; he flushed 
a little and smiled in answer. “It was very jolly there in 
the winter too, if you come to that, sir. Ripping skat- 
ing I” 

“Does all the family skate?” 

“No, not all the family.” He laughed. “Just enough 
of it. Sir Christopher.” 

The old man sat back in his chair and sipped his hock. 
“Some men can get on without a woman about them, 
but, so far as Tve observed you, I don’t think you’re that 
sort. If you must have a woman about you, there’s a 
good deal to be said for its being your own wife, and 
not, as so often happens, somebody else’s. May we in- 
clude that among our recent discoveries?” 

“But your own wife costs such a lot of money.” 

“So do the others — very often. Don’t wait too long 
for money, or for too much of it. Things are j oiliest 
in the spring!” 

“I suppose I’m rather young. I’m only twenty-five, 
you know.” 

“And a damned good age for making love, too!” Sir 
Christopher pronounced emphatically. 

“Oh, of course, if that’s your experience, sir !” laughed 
Arthur. 

Sir Christopher grew graver. “Does the wound heal 
at Hilsey?” 

“Yes, I think so — slowly.” 

“Surgery’s the only thing sometimes; when you can’t 
cure, you must cut. At any rate, we won’t think hardly 
410 


IN THE SPRING 


of our beautiful friend. I don’t believe, though, that 
you’re thinking of her at all, you young rascal ! You’re 
thinking of nothing but that train at four o’clock.” 

Arthur was silent a moment or two. “I dare say that 
some day, when it’s a bit farther oif, I shall be able to 
look at it all better — to see just what happened and what 
it came to. But I can’t do that now. I — I haven’t time.” 
They had finished lunch. He came and rested his hand 
on the old man’s shoulder. “At any rate, it’s brought 
me your friendship. I can’t begin to tell you what that 
is to me, sir.” 

Sir Christopher looked up at him. “I can tell you 
what it is to me, though. It’s a son for my barren old 
age — and I’m quite ready to take a daughter too, Ar- 
thur.” 

Arthur went off by the four-o’clock train, with his 
copy of The Times in his pocket. But out of that pocket 
it never emerged, save in the privacy of his den, and 
there it was hidden carefully. Never in all his life did 
he confess that he had “happened” to bring it down with 
him. For on the platform at Hilsey the first thing he 
saw was Judith waiting for him. As soon as he put his 
head out of the window, she ran towards him, brandish- 
ing The Times in her hand. No motive to produce his 
copy, no need to confess that he had brought it! 

His attitude toward Judith’s copy was one of apparent 
indifference. It could not be maintained in face of her 
excitement and curiosity. The report seemed to have 
had on her much the same effect as skating. She pro- 
posed to walk home, and let the car take his luggage, and 
as soon as they were clear of the station she cried, “Now 
you’ve got to tell me all — all — about it! What are the 
Rolls, and who’s the Master of them? What’s Lord 
411 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


Justice Leonard like? And the other one — what’s his 
name? — Pratt? And what was it in your speech that 
they thought so clever ?” 

“I thought perhaps you wouldn’t see it,” said Arthur, 
not mentioning that he had taken his own measures to 
meet that contingency, had it arisen. 

"‘Not see it ! Why, I hunt all through those wretched 
cases every morning of my life, looking for that blessed 
dog of yours! So I shall, till it’s found, or buried, or 
something. Now begin at the beginning, and tell me 
just how everything happened.” 

“I say, this isn’t the shortest way home, you know.” 

“I know it isn’t. Begin now directly, Arthur.” She 
had hold of his arm now, The Times still in her other 
hand. “Godfrey’s quite excited — for him. He’d have 
come, only he’s got a bad cold ; and Margaret stayed to 
comfort him. Begin now !” 

His attitude of indifference had no chance. All the 
story was dragged from him by reiterated “And 

then’s ?” He warmed to it himself, working up 

through their lordships, through Miss Crewdson’s smile 
(“She looks an uncommonly nice old girl,” he inter- 
jected), through Tom Mayne’s raptures and Norton 
Ward’s jocose tribute, to the climax of the august so- 
licitor and the case to advise which attested his approval. 
“That may mean a lot to me,” Arthur ended. 

“The people you’d been trying to beat!” Her voice 
sounded awed at the wonder of it. “I should have 
thought they’d just hate you. I wish I was a man, Ar- 
thur! Aren’t you awfully proud of it all?” 

Well, he was awfully proud, there was no denying it. 
“I wish the dear old mater could have read it !” 

She pressed his arm. “We can read it. I’ve helped 
412 


IN THE SPRING 


Margaret to spell it out. She’s feeling rather afraid of 
you, now that you’ve got your name in the paper. And 
Godfrey’s been looking up all the famous Lisles in the 
County History! You won’t have to be doing Frank 
Norton Ward’s work for him now all the time — and for 
nothing too!” 

In vain he tried to tell her how valuable the deviling 
was to him. No, she thought it dull, and was inclined to 
lay stress on the way Norton Ward found his account 
in it. Arthur gave up the eifort, but, somewhat alarmed 
by the expectations he seemed to be raising, ventured 
to add, “Don’t think I’m going to jump into five thou- 
sand a year, Judith !” 

“Let me have my little crow out, and then I’ll be sen- 
sible about it,” she pleaded. 

But he did not in his heart want her sensible ; her eyes 
would not be so bright, nor her cheeks glow with color ; 
her voice would not vibrate with eager joyfulness, nor her 
laugh ring so merrily; infectious as Miss Ayesha La- 
yard’s own, it was really ! Small wonder that he caught 
the infection of her sanguine pleasure! Long roads 
seemed short that evening, whether they led to fame and 
fortune, or only through the meadows and across the 
river to Hilsey Manor. 

“Now the others will want to hear all about it,” said 
Judith, with something like a touch of jealousy. 

The story had to be told again — this time with hu- 
morous magniloquence for Margaret’s benefit, with much 
stress on their lordships’ wigs and gowns, a colorable 
imitation of their tones and manner, and a hint of the 
awful things they might have done to Arthur if he had 
displeased them — which Margaret, with notions of a trial 
based on Alice in Wonderland, was quite prepared to 

413 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


believe. Godfrey shuffled about within earshot, his car- 
pet slippers (his cold gave good excuse for them) pad- 
ding up and down the room as he listened without seem- 
ing to listen, and his shy “Very — very — er — satisfactory 
to you, Arthur !” coming with a pathetic inadequacy at the 
end of the recital. 

Then — before dinner — a quiet half-hour in his own 
den upstairs, where everything was ready for him and 
seemed to expect him, where fresh fragrant flowers on 
table and chimneypiece revealed affectionate anticipa- 
tion of his coming, where the breeze blew in, laden with 
the sweetness of spring, through the open windows. As 
he sat by them, he could hear the distant cawing of the 
rooks and see the cattle grazing in the meadows. The 
river glinted under the setting sun, the wood on the hill 
stood solid and somber with clear-cut outline. The 
Peace of God seemed to rest on the old place and to wrap 
it round in a golden tranquillity. His heart was in a 
mood sensitive to the suggestion. He rested after his 
labors, after the joyful excitement of the last twenty-four 
hours. So Hilsey, too, seemed to rest after its struggle, 
and to raise in kind security the head that had bent 
before the storm. 

He had left his door ajar and had not heard anyone en- 
ter. But presently — it may be that he had fallen into a 
doze or a state of passive contemplation very like one — 
he found Judith standing by the armchair in which he 
was reclining — Oh, so lazily and pleasantly ! She looked 
as if she might have been there for some little while, 
some few moments at all events, and she was gazing 
on the fairness of the evening with a smile on her 
lips. 

“Fve been putting Margaret to bed — she was allowed 
414 


IN THE SPRING 


an extra hour in your honor — and then I just looked in 
here to see if you wanted anything.” 

“I shall make a point of wanting as many things as I 
possibly can. I love being waited on, and I’ve never 
been able to get enough of it. I shall keep you busy! 
Judith, to think that once I was going to desert Hilsey ! 
Well, I suppose we shall be turned out some day.” He 
sighed lightly and humorously over the distant prospect 
of ejection by Margaret, grown up, married perhaps, and 
the chatelaine. 

you want to know your future, I happen to be able 
to tell you,” said Judith. "‘Margaret arranged it while 
she was getting into bed.” 

'"Oh, let’s hear this I It’s important — most important 1” 
he cried, sitting up. 

“If you don’t want to go on living here, you’re to have 
a house built for you up on the hill there. On the other 
side of the wood, I insisted; otherwise you’d spoil the 
view horribly 1 But Margaret didn’t seem to mind about 
that.” 

“Yes, I think I must be behind the wood — especially 
if I’m to have a modern artistic cottage!” 

“There you’re to live — when you’re not in London be- 
ing praised by judges — and you’re to come down the hill 
to tea every day of the week.” 

“It doesn’t seem a bad idea— only she might sometimes 
make it dinner!” 

“She’ll make it dinner when she’s bigger, I dare say. 
At present, for her, you see, dinner doesn’t count.” 

“Why does she think I mightn’t want to go on living 
here? Is she contemplating developments in my life? 
Or in her own? And where are you going to live while 
I’m living on the top of the hill, out of sight behind the 

415 


A YOUNG MAN’S YEAR 


wood? Did Margaret settle your future too, Judith?” 

“I don’t think it occurs to her that Fve got one — ex- 
cept just to go on being here. We women — we ordinary 
women — get our futures settled for us. I think Berna- 
dette settled mine the day she ran away and left poor 
Hilsey derelict.” 

He looked up at her with a mischievous twinkle in 
his eye. “Should you put the settling of your fate quite 
as early as that, Judith?” 

She saw what he meant and shook her head at him in 
reproof, but her eyes were merry and happy. 

“Have you thought over that idea of Switzerland in 
the winter ?” 

“It’s the spring now. Why do you want to think of 
winter ?” 

“The thought of winter makes the spring even pleas- 
anter.” 

She smiled as she rested her hand on his shoulder and 
looked down on his face. “Well, perhaps — if I can pos- 
sibly persuade Godfrey to come with us.” 

“If he won’t? What are we to do if we can get no- 
body to go with us ?” 

She broke into a low gentle laugh. “Well, I don’t 
want to get rusty in my skating. And it’s splendid over 
there.” Her eyes met his for a moment in gleeful con- 
fession. “Still — the best day’s skating I ever had in my 
life, Arthur, was the first day we skated here at Hilsey.” 

(I) 


THE END 




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